How Three Became Four: Book 3
by BountyHunterGirl134
Summary: Dumbledore is dead, Voldemort is in power, and Harry and his friends are on the run. Join them on their death-defying search for Voldemort's Horcruxes, and read as they travel to dark places, land in dangerous situations, and be tested to limits they never expected. And maybe, just maybe, there are secrets so shocking that must be revealed. The Final Chapter is here. Book 3 of 3.
1. Chapter 1

How Three Became Four

**BUM BUM BUM! :) Here we are readers, at the third and final book of the How Three Became Four series! I can't believe we've finally made it! I hope you're all excited! After the actionated, romanticised, wild adventures of Harry's sixth year, we now come to what would be his seventh, if not, per say, he was going on quite the interesting adventure ;) There will be even more action, excitement, and a lot more romance! We all love our new little addition to Harry's life! :) Like the first and second books, the story will consist of a mushed versiony-thingy of the seventh Harry Potter book and the seventh Harry Potter movie. I hope that you enjoy our "home-stretch story", and I hope you keep reviewing for me :) Ready? Set? Action.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or anything included or endorsed by Warner Brothers or J.K. Rowling :) I think that about covers it.**

1) Lies and Leavings

Harry was bleeding.

Clutching his right hand in his left and swearing under his breath, he shouldered open his bedroom door. There was a crunch of breaking china. He had trodden on a cup of cold tea that had been sitting on the floor outside his bedroom door.

"What the-?"

He looked around; the landing of number four, Privet Drive, was deserted. Possibly the cup of tea was Dudley's idea of a clever booby trap. Keeping his bleeding hand elevated, Harry scraped the fragments of cup together with the other hand and threw them into the already crammed bin just visible inside his bedroom door. Then he tramped across to the bathroom to run his finger under the tap.

It was stupid, pointless, irritating beyond belief that he still had four days left of being unable to perform magic... but he had to admit to himself that this jagged cut in his finger would have defeated him. He had never learned how to repair wounds, and now he came to think of it- particularly in light of his immediate plans- this seemed a serious flaw in his magical education. Making a mental note to ask Hermione how it was done, he used a large wad of toilet paper to mop up as much of the tea as he could before returning to his bedroom and slamming the door behind him.

Harry had spent the morning completely emptying his school trunk for the first time since he had packed it six years ago. At the start of the intervening school years, he had merely skimmed off the topmost three quarters of the contents and replaced or updated them, leaving a layer of general debris at the bottom- old quills, desiccated beetle eyes, single socks that no longer fit. Minutes previously, Harry had plunged his hand into this mulch, experienced a slicing pain in the fourth finger of his right hand, and withdrawn it to see a lot of blood.

He now proceeded a little more cautiously. Kneeling down beside the trunk again, he groped around in the bottom and, after retrieving an old badge that flickered feebly between SUPPORT CEDRIC DIGGORY and POTTER STINKS, a cracked and worn-out Sneakoscope, and a gold locket inside which a note signed R.A.B. had been hidden, he finally discovered the sharp thing that had done the damage. He pulled out an old, faded piece of paper; the edge must have given him a paper cut.

Curious, Harry unfolded the paper, a bit awkwardly because his sore finger, and smoothed it out. His breath caught as he looked upon it; he recognized it at once, though it had been almost two years since he had seen it.

In his hands lay a small, smudged, hand-drawn picture of Cedric Diggory, looking as cool and charming as ever. He sat back, remembering that late night his own girlfriend, Abigail, who had never seen, heard, nor even spoken of Cedric Diggory as far as he knew, had set this in front of him, with something dark and serious in her eyes, something he had never seen before nor again. It was haunted and strange.

He hadn't seen this picture in a long time; now that same, egging sense of curiousity that had clouded over him then was back now, desperate to know what this meant, what it could mean, why she had dreamed about someone she never knew, someone lost-

Harry jumped as Hedwig suddenly screeched behind him, flapping wildly in her cage. The sound of something else shattering echoed throughout the room. The picture momentarily forgotten, Harry reached out, placing it gently onto his bed near an empty rugsack, the locket, and that day's _Daily Prophet_, then stood and made his way over to his dresser, where Hedwig was looking very irritable, her wings ruffled in agitation, however no longer shaking the cage. He reached a finger through the bars, stroking her feathery head comfortingly; she cocked her head toward him in obvious affection.

"Don't worry," he said to her. "When the Dursley's leave, you can go fly. You can go fly anywhere you want." He pulled his finger away. She crooned lovingly at him, resettling herself more comfortably in her cage in resignation.

With a sigh, Harry kneeled down, examining what had fallen in Hedwig's excitement. A mix of big and small glass pieces lay on the floor, broken pieces of a whole. Harry scooped them up into his hand, moving back across the room to place them on his bed, laying them over the newspaper. He picked up one of the bigger pieces; it was a two-inch-long fragment of an enchanted mirror that his dead godfather, Sirius, had owned. Over the summer, members of the Order had finally managed to reclaim most of the things Mundugus Fletcher (Harry grimmaced) had stolen (and some sold) from Grimmauld Place a few months ago. Abigail, who was currently hiding away with the Weasleys, had recieved first pick of the lot, as her name was written first on Sirius' will, but she had not cared to keep much, just a few trinkets that she must have wanted or thought were important. Harry had kept the rest of the items; while some of it was things he never cared for, it seemed to hard to let go of those that had belonged to the closest thing he had ever had to a father.

The special thing about the enchanted mirror had been that it had had a twin, a match, the other half to one other mirror and that one only. The Order members who knew of these mirrors had told him of their purposes: the beholders of these two mirrors could communicate back and forth with each other through the glass, wherever and whenever they needed to. Unfortunately, the Order had been unable to find the match to the mirror, no matter how hard they searched; they could only assume it had been sold off to an unknown or it had been somehow damaged. Whatever the situation, Harry had seen nothing but himself in it when he looked in it for the first time; since then, he had left it sitting on his dresser, forgetful that it was even there at all.

Harry examined the jagged piece, seeing nothing but his own bright green eye reflected back at him. He placed the fragment back with the others on top of that morning's _Daily Prophet_, which lay unread on the bed, and attempted to stem the sudden upsurge of bitter memories, the stabs of regret and of longing the discovery of the broken mirror had occasioned, by attacking the rest of the rubbish in the trunk.

It took another hour to empty it completely, throw away the useless items, and sort the remainder in piles according to whether or not he would need them from now on. His school and Quidditch robes, cauldron, parchment, quills, most of his textbooks, and the rest of Sirius' inheirited things were piled back into his trunk, later to be moved into Grimmauld Place for safekeeping by the Order. His Muggle clothing, Invisibility Cloak, potion-making kit, certain books, the photograph album Hagrid had once given him, a stack of letters, and his wand had been repacked into the old rucksack. In a front pocket were the Marauder's Map and the locket with the note signed R.A.B. inside it. The locket was accorded this place of honor not because it was valuable- in all usual senses it was worthless- but because of what it had cost to attain it.

With that packed, Harry looked back at the bed, where the jagged pieces of the enchanted mirror and the picture lay. He hesitated for a long moment, just staring at the portrait, then slowly, surely, he picked it up, refolded it, and slid it into the front pocket with the map and locket, still wondering. He ignored the pieces of the mirror and the newspaper, left alone on the bed.

This just left a sizable stack of newspapers sitting on his dresser beside his snowy owl, Hedwig: one for each of the days Harry had spent at Privet Drive this summer.

He got up off the floor, stretched, and moved back across to his dresser. Hedwig made no movement as he began to flick through newspapers, throwing them into the rubbish pile one by one. The owl was asleep now, bored with the limited amount of time she was allowed out of her cage at the moment.

As he neared the bottom of the pile of newspapers, Harry slowed down, searching for one particular issue that he knew had arrived shortly after he had returned to Privet Drive for the summer; he remembered that there had been a small mention on the front about the resignation of Charity Burbage, the Muggle Studies teacher at Hogwarts. At last he found it. Turning to page ten, he sank into his desk chair and reread the article he had been looking for.

**ALBUS DUMBLEDORE REMEMBERED**

By Elphias Doge

_I met Albus Dumbledore at the age of eleven, on our first day at Hogwarts. Our mutual attraction was undoubtedly due to the fact that we both felt ourselves to be outsiders. I had contracted dragon pox shortly before arriving at school, and while I was no longer contagious, my pock-marked visage and greenish hue did not encourage many to approach me. For his part, Albus had arrived at Hogwarts under the burden of unwanted notoriety. Scarcely a year previously, his father, Percival, had been convicted of a savage and well-publicized attack upon three young Muggles._

Albus never attempted to deny that his father (who was to die in Azkaban) had committed this crime; on the contrary, when I plucked up courage to ask him, he assured me that he knew his father to be guilty. Beyond that, Dumbledore refused to speak of the sad business, though many attempted to make him do so. Some, indeed, were disposed to praise his father's action and assumed that Albus too was a Muggle-hater. They could not have been more mistaken: As anybody who knew Albus would attest, he never revealed the remotest anti-Muggle tendency. Indeed, his determined support for Muggle rights gained him many enemies in subsequent years.

In a matter of months, however, Albus's own fame had begun to eclipse that of his father. By the end of his first year he would never again be known as the son of a Muggle-hater, but as nothing more or less than the most brilliant student ever seen at the school. Those of us who were privileged to be his friends benefited from his example, not to mention his help and encouragement, with which he was always generous. He confessed to me later in life that he knew even then that his greatest pleasure lay in teaching.

He not only won every prize of note that the school offered, he was soon in regular correspondence with the most notable magical names of the day, including Nicolas Flamel, the celebrated alchemist; Bathilda Bagshot, the noted historian; and Adalbert Waffling, the magical theoretician. Several of his papers found their way into learned publications such as Transfiguration Today, Challenges in Charming, and The Practical Potioneer. Dumbledore's future career seemed likely to be meteoric, and the only question that remained was when he would become Minister of Magic. Though it was often predicted in later years that he was on the point of taking the job, however, he never had Ministerial ambitions.

Three years after we had started at Hogwarts, Albus's brother, Aberforth, arrived at school. They were not alike: Aberforth was never bookish and, unlike Albus, preferred to settle arguments by dueling rather than through reasoned discussion. However, it is quite wrong to suggest, as some have, that the brothers were not friends. They rubbed along as comfortably as two such different boys could do. In fairness to Aberforth, it must be admitted that living in Albus's shadow cannot have been an altogether comfortable experience. Being continually outshone was an occupational hazard of being his friend and cannot have been any more pleasurable as a brother. When Albus and I left Hogwarts we intended to take the then-traditional tour of the world together, visiting and observing foreign wizards, before pursuing our separate careers. However, tragedy intervened. On the very eve of our trip, Albus's mother, Kendra, died, leaving Albus the head, and sole breadwinner, of the family. I postponed my departure long enough to pay my respects at Kendra's funeral, then left for what was now to be a solitary journey. With a younger brother and sister to care for, and little gold left to them, there could no longer be any question of Albus accompanying me.

That was the period of our lives when we had least contact. I wrote to Albus, describing, perhaps insensitively, the wonders of my journey, from narrow escapes from chimaeras in Greece to the experiments of the Egyptian alchemists. His letters told me little of his day-to-day life, which I guessed to be frustratingly dull for such a brilliant wizard. Immersed in my own experiences, it was with horror that I heard, toward the end of my year's travels, that another tragedy had struck the Dumbledores: the death of his sister, Ariana.

Though Ariana had been in poor health for a long time, the blow, coming so soon after the loss of their mother, had a profound effect on both of her brothers. All those closest to Albus- and I count myself one of that lucky number- agree that Ariana's death, and Albus's feeling of personal responsibility for it (though, of course, he was guiltless), left their mark upon him forevermore.

I returned home to find a young man who had experienced a much older person's suffering. Albus was more reserved than before, and much less light-hearted. To add to his misery, the loss of Ariana had led, not to a renewed closeness between Albus and Aberforth, but to an estrangement. (In time this would lift- in later years they reestablished, if not a close relationship, then certainly a cordial one.) However, he rarely spoke of his parents or of Ariana from then on, and his friends learned not to mention them.

Other quills will describe the triumphs of the following years. Dumbledore's innumerable contributions to the store of Wizarding knowledge, including his discovery of the twelve uses of dragon's blood, will benefit generations to come, as will the wisdom he displayed in the many judgments while Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot. They say, still, that no Wizarding duel ever matched that between Dumbledore and Grindelwald in 1945. Those who witnessed it have written of the terror and the awe they felt as they watched these two extraordinary wizards to battle. Dumbledore's triumph, and its consequences for the Wizarding world, are considered a turning point in magical history to match the introduction of the International Statute of Secrecy or the downfall of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.

Albus Dumbledore was never proud or vain; he could find something to value in anyone, however apparently insignificant or wretched, and I believe that his early losses endowed him with great humanity and sympathy. I shall miss his friendship more than I can say, but my loss is nothing compared to the Wizarding world's. That he was the most inspiring and best loved of all Hogwarts headmasters cannot be in question. He died as he lived: working always for the greater good and, to his last hour, as willing to stretch out a hand to a small boy with dragon pox as he was on the day I met him.

Harry finished reading, but continued to gaze at the picture accompanying the obituary. Dumbledore was wearing his familiar, kindly smile, but as he peered over the top of his half-moon spectacles, he gave the impression, even in newsprint, of x-raying Harry, whose sadness mingled with a sense of humiliation.

He had thought he knew Dumbledore quite well, but ever since reading this obituary he had been forced to recognize that he had barely known him at all. Never once had he imagined Dumbledore's childhood or youth; it was as though he had sprung into being as Harry had known him, vunerable and silver-haired and old. The idea of a teenage Dumbledore was simply odd, like trying to imagine a stupid Hermione or a friendly Blast-Ended Skrewt.

He had never thought to ask Dumbledore about his past. No doubt it would have felt strange, impertinent even, but after all it had been common knowledge that Dumbledore had taken part in that legendary duel with Grindelwald, and Harry had not thought to ask Dumbledore what that had been like, nor about any of his other famous achievements. No, they had always discussed Harry, Harry's past, Harry's future, Harry's plans... and it seemed to Harry now, despite the fact that his future was so dangerous and so uncertain, that he had missed irreplaceable opportunities when he had failed to ask Dumbledore more about himself, even though the only personal question he had ever asked his headmaster was also the only one he suspected that Dumbledore had not answered honestly:

_"What do you see when you look in the mirror?"_

"I? I see myself holding a pair of thick, woolen socks."

After several minutes' thought, Harry tore the obituary out of the _Prophet_, folded it carefully, and tucked it inside the first volume of Practical Defensive Magic and its Use against the Dark Arts. Then he threw the rest of the newspaper onto the rubbish pile and turned to face the room. It was much tidier. Once more, the only things left out of place were today's _Daily Prophet_, still lying on the bed, and on top of it, the pieces of broken mirror.

Harry moved across the room, slid the mirror fragments off today's Prophet, and unfolded the newspaper. He had merely glanced at the headline when he had taken the rolled-up paper from the delivery owl early that morning and thrown it aside, after noting that it said nothing about Voldemort. Harry was sure that the Ministry was leaning on the _Prophet_to suppress news about Voldemort. It was only now, therefore, that he saw what he had missed.

Across the bottom half of the front page a smaller headline was set over a picture of Dumbledore striding along, looking harried:

**DUMBLEDORE- THE TRUTH AT LAST?  
**  
_Coming next week, the shocking story of the flawed genius considered by many to be the greatest wizard of his generation. Striping away the popular image of serene, silver-bearded wisdom, Rita Skeeter reveals the disturbed childhood, the lawless youth, the life-long feuds, and the guilty secrets that Dumbledore carried to his grave, WHY was the man tipped to be the Minister of Magic content to remain a mere headmaster? WHAT was the real purpose of the secret organization known as the Order of the Phoenix? HOW did Dumbledore really meet his end?_

The answers to these and many more questions are explored in the explosive new biography, The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore, by Rita Skeeter, exclusively interviewed by Berry Braithwaite, page 13, inside.

Harry ripped open the paper and found page thirteen. The article was topped with a picture showing another familiar face: a woman wearing jeweled glasses with elaborately curled blonde hair, her teeth bared in what was clearly supposed to be a winning smile, wiggling her fingers up at him. Doing his best to ignore this nauseating image, Harry read on.

_In person, Rita Skeeter is much warmer and softer than her famously ferocious quill-portraits might suggest. Greeting me in the hallway of her cozy home, she leads me straight into the kitchen for a cup of tea, a slice of pound cake and, it goes without saying, a steaming vat of freshest gossip._

"Well, of course, Dumbledore is a biographer's dream," says Skeeter. "Such a long, full life. I'm sure my book will be the first of very, very many."

Skeeter was certainly quick off the mark. Her nine-hundred-page book was completed in a mere four weeks after Dumbledore's mysterious death in June. I ask her how she managed this superfast feat.

"Oh, when you've been a journalist as long as I have, working to a deadline is second nature. I knew that the Wizarding world was clamoring for the full story and I wanted to be the first to meet that need."

I mention the recent, widely publicized remarks of Elphias Doge, Special Advisor to the Wizengamot and longstanding friend of Albus Dumbledore's, that "Skeeter's book contains less fact than a Chocolate Frog card."

Skeeter throws back her head and laughs.

"Darling Dodgy! I remember interviewing him a few years back about merpeople rights, bless him. Completely gaga, seemed to think we were sitting at the bottom of Lake Windermere, kept telling me to watch out for trout."

And yet Elphias Doge's accusations of inaccuracy have been echoed in many places. Does Skeeter really feel that four short weeks have been enough to gain a full picture of Dumbledore's long and extraordinary life?

"Oh, my dear," beams Skeeter, rapping me affectionately across the knuckles, "you know as well as I do how much information can be generated by a fat bag of Galleons, a refusal to hear the word 'no,' and a nice sharp Quick-Quotes Quill! People were queuing to dish the dirt on Dumbledore anyway. Not everyone thought he was so wonderful, you know- he trod on an awful lot of important toes. But old Dodgy Doge can get off his high hippogriff, because I've had access to a source most journalists would swap their wands for, one who has never spoken in public before and who was close to Dumbledore during the most turbulent and disturbing phase of his youth."

The advance publicity for Skeeter's biography has certainly suggested that there will be shocks in store for those who believe Dumbledore to have led a blameless life. What were the biggest surprises she uncovered, I ask?

"Now, come off it. Betty, I'm not giving away all the highlights before anybody's bought the book!" laughs Skeeter. "But I can promise that anybody who still thinks Dumbledore was white as his beard is in for a rude awakening! Let's just say that nobody hearing him rage against You-Know-Who would have dreamed that he dabbled in the Dark Arts himself in his youth! And for a wizard who spent his later years pleading for tolerance, he wasn't exactly broad-minded when he was younger! Yes, Albus Dumbledore had an extremely murky past, not to mention that very fishy family, which he worked so hard to keep hushed up."

I ask whether Skeeter is referring to Dumbledore's brother, Aberforth, whose conviction by the Wizengamot for misuse of magic caused a minor scandal fifteen years ago.

"Oh, Aberforth is just the tip of the dung heap," laughs Skeeter. "No, no, I'm talking about much worse than a brother with a fondness for fiddling about with goats, worse even than the Muggle-maiming father- Dumbledore couldn't keep either of them quiet anyway, they were both charged by the Wizengamot. No, it's the mother and the sister that intrigued me, and a little digging uncovered a positive nest of nastiness- but, as I say, you'll have to wait for chapters nine to twelve for full details. All I can say now is, it's no wonder Dumbledore never talked about how his nose got broken."

Family skeletons notwithstanding, does Skeeter deny the brilliance that led to Dumbledore's many magical discoveries?

"He had brains," she concedes, "although many now question whether he could really take full credit for all of his supposed achievements. As I reveal in chapter sixteen, Ivor Dillonsby claims he had already discovered eight uses of dragon's blood when Dumbledore 'borrowed' his papers."

But the importance of some of Dumbledore's achievements cannot, I venture, be denied. What of his famous defeat of Grindelwald?

"Oh, now, I'm glad you mentioned Grindelwald," says Skeeter with such a tantalizing smile. "I'm afraid those who go dewy-eyed over Dumbledore's spectacular victory must brace themselves for a bombshell- or perhaps a Dungbomb. Very dirty business indeed. All I'll say is, don't be so sure that there really was a spectacular duel of legend. After they've read my book, people may be forced to conclude that Grindelwald simply conjured a white handkerchief from the end of his wand and came quietly!"

Skeeter refuses to give any more away on this intriguing subject, so we turn instead to the relationship that will undoubtedly fascinate her readers more than any other.

"Oh yes," says Skeeter, nodding briskly, "I devote an entire chapter to the whole Potter-Dumbledore relationship. It's been called unhealthy, even sinister. Again, your readers will have to buy my book for the whole story, but there is no question that Dumbledore took an unnatural interest in Potter from the word go. Whether that was really in the boy's best interests- well, we'll see. It's certainly an open secret that Potter has had a most troubled adolescence."

I ask whether Skeeter is still in touch with Harry Potter, whom she so famously interviewed last year: a breakthrough piece in which Potter spoke exclusively of his conviction that You-Know-Who had returned.

"Oh, yes, we've developed a closer bond," says Skeeter. "Poor Potter has few real friends, and we met at one of the most testing moments of his life- the Triwizard Tournament. I am probably one of the only people alive who can say that they know the real Harry Potter."

Which leads us neatly to the many rumors still circulating about Dumbledore's final hours. Does Skeeter believe that Potter was there when Dumbledore died?

"Well, I don't want to say too much- it's all in the book- but eyewitnesses inside Hogwarts castle saw Potter running away from the scene moments after Dumbledore fell, jumped, or was pushed. Potter later gave evidence against Severus Snape, a man against whom he has a notorious grudge. Is everything as it seems? That is for the Wizarding community to decide- once they've read my book."

On that intriguing note, I take my leave. There can be no doubt that Skeeter has quilled an instant bestseller. Dumbledore's legion of admirers, meanwhile, may well be trembling at what is soon to emerge about their hero.

Harry reached the bottom of the article, but continued to stare blankly at the page. Revulsion and fury rose in him like vomit; he balled up the newspaper and threw it, with all his force, at the wall, where it joined the rest of the rubbish heaped around his overflowing bin.

He began to stride blindly around the room, opening empty drawers and picking up books only to replace them on the same piles, barely conscious of what he was doing, as random phrases from Rita's article echoed in his head: _An entire chapter to the whole Potter-Dumbledore relationship... It's been called unhealthy, even sinister... He dabbled in the Dark Arts himself in his youth... I've had access to a source most journalists would swap their wands for...  
_  
"Lies!" Harry bellowed, and through the window he saw the next-door neighbor, who had paused to restart his lawn mower, look up nervously.

Harry sat down hard on the bed. The broken bits of mirror danced away from him, scattering all over his bedroom floor, except for one that remained obidiently situated on the bed- the same one he had examined earlier. Ignoring the scattered pieces, he picked the remaining one up and turned it over in his fingers, thinking, thinking of Dumbledore and the lies with which Rita Skeeter was defaming him...

A flash of brightest blue. Harry froze, his cut finger slipping on the jagged edge of the mirror. He had imagined it, he must have done. He glanced over his shoulder, but the wall was a sickly peach color of Aunt Petunia's choosing: There was nothing blue there for the mirror to reflect. He peered into the mirror fragment again, and saw nothing but his own bright green eye looking back at him.

He had imagined it, there was no other explanation; imagined it, because he had been thinking of his dead headmaster. If anything was certain, it was that the bright blue eyes of Albus Dumbledore would never pierce him again.

The sound of the front door slamming echoed up the stairs and a voice roared, "Oi! You!"

Sixteen years of being addressed thus left Harry in no doubt when his uncle was calling, nevertheless, he did not immediately respond. He was still gazing at the narrow fragment in which, for a split second, he had thought he saw Dumbledore's eye. It was not until his uncle bellowed, "BOY!" that Harry got slowly out of bed and headed for the bedroom door, pausing to add the piece of broken mirror to the rucksack filled with things he would be taking with him. On his way he swept up the other pieces and set them gently into his trunk, then closed and locked it with a resounding, final thunk.

"You took you time!" roared Vernon Dursley when Harry appeared at the top of the stairs, "Get down here. I want a word!"

Harry strolled downstairs, his hands deep in his pants pockets. When he searched the living room he found all three Dursleys. They were dressed for packing; Uncle Vernon in an old ripped-up jacket and Dudley, Harry's, large, blond, muscular cousin, in his leather jacket.

"Yes?" asked Harry.

"Sit down!" said Uncle Vernon. Harry raised his eyebrows. "Please!" added Uncle Vernon, wincing slightly as though the word was sharp in his throat. Harry sat. He thought he knew what was coming. His uncle began to pace up and down, Aunt Petunia and Dudley, following his movement with anxious expressions. Finally, his large purple face crumpled with concentration. Uncle Vernon stopped in front of Harry and spoke.

"I've changed my mind," he said.

"What a surprise," said Harry.

"Don't you take that tone-" began Aunt Petunia in a shrill voice, but Vernon Dursley waved her down.

"It's all a lot of claptrap," said Uncle Vernon, glaring at Harry with piggy little eyes. "I've decided I don't believe a word of it. We're staying put, we're not going anywhere."

Harry looked up at his uncle and felt a mixture of exasperation and amusement. Vernon Dursley had been changing his mind every twenty four hours for the past four weeks, packing and unpacking and repacking the car with every change of heart. Harry's favorite moment had been the one when Uncle Vernon, unaware that Dudley had added his dumbbells to his case since the last time it been repacked, had attempted to hoist it back into the boot and collapsed with roars of pain and much swearing.

"According to you," Vernon Dursley said, now resuming his pacing up and down the living room, "we- Petunia, Dudley, and I- are in danger. From- from-"

"Some of 'my lot', right," said Harry.

"Well I don't believe it," repeated Uncle Vernon, coming to a halt in front of Harry again. "I was awake half the night thinking it all over, and I believe it's a plot to get the house."

"The house?" repeated Harry. "What house?"

"This house!" shrieked Uncle Vernon, the vein his forehead starting to pulse. "Our house! House prices are skyrocketing around here! You want us out of the way and then you're going to do a bit of hocus pocus and before we know it the deeds will be in your name and-"

"Are you out of your mind?" demanded Harry. "A plot to get _this_house? Are you actually as stupid as you look?"

"Don't you dare-!" squealed Aunt Petunia, but again Vernon waved her down. Slights on his personal appearance were it seemed as nothing to the danger he had spotted.

"Just in case you've forgotten," said Harry, "I've already got a house, my godfather left me one. So why would I want this one? All the happy memories?"

There was silence. Harry thought he had rather impressed his uncle with this argument.

"You claim," said Uncle Vernon, starting to pace yet again, "that this Lord Thing-"

"-Voldemort," said Harry impatiently, "and we've been through this about a hundred times already. This isn't a claim, it's fact. Dumbledore told you last year, and Kingsley and Mr. Weasley-"

Vernon Dursley hunched his shoulders angrily, and Harry guessed that his uncle was attempting to ward off recollections of the unannounced visit, a few days into Harry's summer holidays, of two fully grown wizards. The arrival on the doorstep of Kingsley Shacklebolt and Arthur Weasley had come as a most unpleasant shock to the Dursleys. Harry had to admit, however that as Mr. Weasley had once demolished half of the living room, his reappearance could not have been expected to delight Uncle Vernon.

"-Kingsley and Mr. Weasley explained it all as well," Harry pressed on remorselessly, "Once I'm seventeen, the protective charm that keeps me safe will break, and that exposes you as well as me. The Order is sure Voldemort will target you, whether to torture you to try and find out where I am, or because he thinks by holding you hostage I'd come and try to rescue you."

Uncle Vernon's and Harry's eyes met. Harry was sure that in that instant they were both wondering the same thing. Then Uncle Vernon walked on and Harry resumed, "You've got to go into hiding and the Order wants to help. You're being offered serious protection, the best there is."

Uncle Vernon said nothing but continued to pace up and down. Outside the sun hung low over the privet hedges. The next door neighbor's lawn mower stalled again.

"I thought there was a Ministry of Magic?" asked Vernon Dursley abruptly.

"There is," said Harry, surprised.

"Well, then, why can't they protect us? It seems to me that, as innocent victims, guilty of nothing more than harboring a marked man, we ought to qualify for government protection!"

Harry laughed; he could not help himself. It was so very typical of his uncle to put his hopes in the establishment, even within this world that he despised and mistrusted. "You heard what Mr. Weasley and Kingsley said," Harry replied. "We think the Ministry has been infiltrated."

Uncle Vernon strode back to the fireplace and back breathing so strongly that his great black mustache rippled his face still purple with concentration.

"All right," he said, stopping in front of Harry yet again. "All right, let's say for the sake of argument we accept this protection. I still don't see why we can't have that Kingsley bloke."

Harry managed not to roll his eyes, but with difficulty. This question had also been addressed half a dozen times.

"As I've told you," he said through gritted teeth, "Kingsley is protecting the Mug- I mean, your Prime Minister."

"Exactly- he's the best!" said Uncle Vernon, pointing at the blank television screen. The Dursleys had spotted Kingsley on the news, walking along the Muggle Prime Minister as he visited a hospital. This, and the fact that Kingsley had mastered the knack of dressing like a Muggle, not to mention a certain reassuring something in his slow, deep voice, had caused the Dursleys to take to Kingsley in a way that they had certainly not done with any other wizard, although it was true that they had never seen him with his earring in.

"Well, he's taken," said Harry. "But Hestia Jones and Dedalus Diggle are more than up to the job-"

"If we'd even seen CVs..." began Uncle Vernon, but Harry lost patience. Getting to his feet, he advanced on his uncle, now pointing at the TV set himself.

"These accidents aren't accidents- the crashed and explosions and derailments and whatever else has happened since we last watched the news. People are disappearing and dying and he's behind it- Voldemort. I've told you this over and over again, he kills Muggles for fun. Even the fogs- they're caused by dementors, and if you can't remember what they are, ask your son!"

Dudley's hands jerked upward to tower his mouth. With his parents' and Harry's eyes upon him, he slowly lowered them again and asked, "There are... more of them?"

"More?" laughed Harry. "More than the two that attacked us, you mean? Of course there are, there are hundreds, maybe thousands by this time, seeing as they feed off fear and despair-"

"All right, all right," blustered Vernon Dursley. "You've made your point-"

"I hope so," said Harry, "because once I'm seventeen, all of them- Death Eaters, elementors, maybe even Inferi- which means dead bodies enchanted by a Dark wizard- will be able to find you and will certainly attack you. And if you remember the last time you tried to outrun wizards, I think you'll agree you need help."

There was a brief silence in which the distant echo of Hagrid smashing down a wooden front door seemed to reverberate through the intervening years. Aunt Petunia was looking at Uncle Vernon; Dudley was staring at Harry. Finally Uncle Vernon blurted out, "But what about my work? What about Dudley's school? I don't suppose those things matter to a bunch of layabout wizards-"

"Don't you understand?" shouted Harry. "They will torture and kill you like they did my parents!"

"Dad," said Dudley in a loud voice, "Dad- I'm going with these Order people."

"Dudley," said Harry, "for the first time in your life, you're talking sense."

He knew the battle was won. If Dudley was frightened enough to accept the Order's help, his parents would accompany him. There could be no question of being separated from their Duddykins. Harry glanced at the carriage clock on the mantelpiece.

"They'll be here in about five minutes," he said, and when one of the Dursleys replied, he left the room. The prospect of parting- probably forever- from his aunt, uncle, and cousin was one that he was able to contemplate quite cheerfully but there was nevertheless a certain awkwardness in the air. What did you say to one another at the end of sixteen years' solid dislike?

Back in his bedroom, Harry fiddled aimlessly with his rucksack then poked a couple of owl nuts through the bats of Hedwig's cage. They fell with dull thuds to the bottom where she ignored them.

"We're leaving soon, really soon," Harry told her. "And then you'll be able to fly again."

The doorbell rang. Harry hesitated, then headed back out of his room and downstairs. It was too much to expect Hestia and Dedalus to cope with the Dursleys on their own.

"Harry Potter!" squeaked an excited voice, the moment Harry had opened the door; a small man in a mauve top hat that was sweeping him a deep bow. "An honor as ever!"

"Thanks, Dedalus," said Harry, bestowing a small and embarrassed smile upon the dark haired Hestia. "It's really good of you to do this... They're through here, my aunt and uncle and cousin..."

"Good day to you, Harry Potter's relatives!" said Dedalus happily striding into the living room. The Dursleys did not look at all happy to be addressed thus; Harry half expected another change of mind. Dudley shrank neared to his mother at the sight of the witch and wizard.

"I see you are packed and ready. Excellent! The plan, as Harry has told you, is a simple one," said Dedalus, pulling an immense pocket watch out of his waistcoat and examining it. "We shall be leaving before Harry does. Due to the danger of using magic in your house- Harry being still underage it could provide the Ministry with an excuse to arrest him- we shall be driving, say, ten miles or so before Disapparating to the safe location we have picked out for you. You know how to drive, I take it?" He asked Uncle Vernon politely.

"Know how to-? Of course I ruddy well know how to drive!" spluttered Uncle Vernon.

"Very clever of you, sir, very clever. I personally would be utterly bamboozled by all those buttons and knobs," said Dedalus. He was clearly under the impression that he was flattering Vernon Dursley, who was visibly losing confidence in the plan with every word Dedalus spoke.

"Can't even drive," he muttered under his breath, his mustache rippling indignantly, but fortunately neither Dedalus nor Hestia seemed to hear him.

"You, Harry," Dedalus continued, "will wait here for your guard. There has been a little change in the arrangements-"

"What d'you mean?" said Harry at once. "I thought Mad-Eye was going to come and take me by Side Along-Apparition?"

"Can't do it," said Hestia tersely, "Mad-Eye will explain."

The Dursleys, who had listened to all of this with looks of utter incomprehension on their faces, jumped as a loud voice screeched, "Hurry up!" Harry looked all around the room before realizing the voice had issued from Dedalus's pocket watch.

"Quite right, were operating to a very tight schedule," said Dedalus nodding at his watch and tucking it back into his waist coat. "We are attempting to time your departure from the house with your family's Disapparition, Harry thus the charm breaks the moment you all head for safety." He turned to the Dursleys, "Well, are we all packed and ready to go?"

None of them answered him. Uncle Vernon was still staring appalled at the bulge in Dedalus's waistcoat pocket.

"Perhaps we should wait outside in the hall, Dedalus," murmured Hestia. She clearly felt that it would be tactless for them to remain the room while Harry and the Dursleys exchanged loving, possibly tearful farewells.

"There's no need," Harry muttered, but Uncle Vernon made any further explanation unnecessary by saying loudly,

"Well, this is good-bye, then, boy."

He swung his right arm upward to shake Harry's hand, but at the last moment seemed unable to face it, and merely closed his fist and began swinging it backward and forward like a metronome.

"Ready, Duddy?" asked Petunia, fussily checking the clasp of her handbag so as to avoid looking at Harry altogether.

Dudley did not answer but stood there with his mouth slightly ajar, reminding Harry a little of the giant, Grawp.

"Come along, then," said Uncle Vernon.

He had already reached the living room door when Dudley mumbled, "I don't understand."

"What don't you understand, popkin?" asked Petunia looking up at her son.

Dudley raised a large, hamlike hand to point at Harry.

"Why isn't he coming with us?"

Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia froze when they stood staring at Dudley as though he had just expressed a desire to become a ballerina.

"What?" said Uncle Vernon loudly.

"Why isn't he coming too?" asked Dudley.

"Well, he- doesn't want to," said Uncle Vernon, turning to glare at Harry and adding, "You don't want to, do you?"

"Not in the slightest," said Harry.

"There you are," Uncle Vernon told Dudley. "Now come on we're off."

He marched out of the room. They heard the front door open, but Dudley did not move and after a few faltering steps Aunt Petunia stopped too.

"What now?" barked Uncle Vernon, reappearing in the doorway.

It seemed that Dudley was struggling with concepts too difficult to put into words. After several moments of apparently painful internal struggle he said, "But where's he going to go?"

Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon looked at each other. It was clear that Dudley was frightening them. Hestia Jones broke the silence.

"But... surely you know where your nephew is going?" she asked looking bewildered.

"Certainly we know," said Vernon Dursley. "He's off with some of your lot, isn't he? Right, Dudley, let's get in the car, you heard the man, we're in a hurry."

Again, Vernon Dursley marched as far as the front door, but Dudley did not follow.

"Off with some of _our_lot?"

Hestia looked outraged. Harry had met this attitude before Witches and wizards seemed stunned that his closed living relatives took so little interest in the famous Harry Potter.

"It's fine," Harry assured her. "It doesn't matter, honestly."

"Doesn't matter?" repeated Hestia, her voice rising considerably. "Don't these people realize what you've been through? What danger you are in? The unique position you hold in the hearts of the anti-Voldemort movement?"

"Er- no, they don't," said Harry. "They think I'm a waste of space, actually but I'm used to-"

"I don't think you're a waste of space"

If Harry had not seen Dudley's lips move, he might not have believed it. As it was, he stared at Dudley for several seconds before accepting that it must have been his cousin who had spoken; for one thing, Dudley had turned red. Harry was embarrassed and astonished himself.

"Well... er... thanks, Dudley."

Again, Dudley appeared to grapple with thoughts too unwieldy for expression before mumbling, "You saved my life,"

"Not really," said Harry. "It was your soul the dementor would have taken..."

He looked curiously at his cousin. They had had virtually no contact during this summer or last, as Harry had come back to Privet Drive so briefly and kept to his room so much. It now dawned on Harry, however, that the cup of cold tea on which he had trodden that morning might not have been a booby trap at all. Although rather touched he was nevertheless quite relieved that Dudley appeared to have exhausted his ability to express his feelings. After opening his mouth once or twice more, Dudley subsided into scarlet-faced silence.

Aunt Petunia burst into tears. Hestia Jones gave her an approving look that changed to outrage as Aunt Petunia ran forward and embraced Dudley rather than Harry. "S-so sweet, Dudders..." she sobbed into his massive chest. "S-such a lovely b-boy... s-saying thank you..."

"But he hasn't said thank you at all!" said Hestia indignantly. "He only said he didn't think Harry was a waste of space!"

"Yea but coming from Dudley that's like 'I love you,'" said Harry, torn between annoyance and a desire to laugh as Aunt Petunia continued to clutch at Dudley as if he had just saved Harry from a burning building.

"Are we going or not?" roared Uncle Vernon, reappearing yet again at the living room door. "I thought we were on a tight schedule!"

"Yes- yes, we are," said Dedalus Diggle, who had been watching these exchanged with an air of bemusement and now seemed to pull himself together. "We really must be off. Harry-"

He tripped forward and wrung Harry's hand with both of his own.

"-good luck. I hope we meet again. The hopes of the Wizarding world rest upon your shoulders."

"Oh," said Harry, "right. Thanks."

"Farwell, Harry," said Hestia also clasping his hand. "Our thoughts go with you."

"I hope everything's okay," said Harry with a glance toward Aunt Petunia and Dudley.

"Oh I'm sure we shall end up the best of chums," said Diggle slightly, waving his hat as he left the room. Hestia followed him.

Dudley gently released himself from his mother's clutches and walked toward Harry who had to repress an urge to threaten him with magic. Then Dudley held out his large, pink hand.

"Blimey, Dudley," said Harry over Aunt Petunia's renewed sobs, "did the dementors blow a different personality into you?"

"Dunno," muttered Dudley, "See you, Harry."

"Yeah..." said Harry, taking Dudley's hand and shaking it. "Maybe. Take care, Big D."

Dudley nearly smiled. They lumbered from the room. Harry heard his heavy footfalls on the graveled drive, and then a car door slammed.

Aunt Petunia whose face had been buried in her handkerchief looked around at the sound. She did not seem to have expected to find herself alone with Harry. Hastily stowing her wet handkerchief into her pocket, she said, "Well- good-bye," and marched towards the door without looking at him.

"Good-bye" said Harry.

She stopped and looked back. For a moment Harry had the strangest feeling that she wanted to say something to him; She gave him an odd, tremulous look and seemed to teeter on the edge of speech, but then, with a little of her head, she hustled out of the room after her husband and son.

**A little boring and canon :P But it starts the story off well, I think. Marvelous. xD**

**Definitely make sure to put it in a review if you remembered the picture of Cedric Abigail drew in the first book *raises hand* If you didn't, I believe it's chapter twelve of Book 1. It's actually really important to the story! :) Though you probably already got that. **

**Anyway, school just started and I'm still on colorguard (YAY ;D) and I was invited to be a part of Rachel's Challenge. If you've never heard of it, the "Chain Reaction", or the Friends of Rachel (FOR) Club, you should definitely look her up online and read her story :) Her full name is Rachel Joy Scott, and she was the first one shot in the Columbine High School shooting in 1999. If you want some more in-depth information or you have any questions or comments about it, definitely feel free to PM me or put something in a review. Honestly, she is one of my biggest role models and she inspires me to be a good person and to be the best that I can be. I hope her story- her whole story- inspires you too. Friends of Rachel, 2012-2013.**

**Anyway, with all of this going on, updates are going to become quite sketchy again. I promise, however, that I will do all in my power to keep them within two weeks of each other. I hope you all have the patience to put up with me :)**

**DON'T WORRY :) Much more OC next update! And loooooooovvee xD Hee!**

**Here we go- Book 3!**

**Next Update: 9/15/12 OR 9/22/12**


	2. Chapter 2

How Three Became Four

**BUM BUM BUM! :) Here we are readers, at the third and final book of the How Three Became Four series! I can't believe we've finally made it! I hope you're all excited! After the actionated, romanticised, wild adventures of Harry's sixth year, we now come to what would be his seventh, if not, per say, he was going on quite the interesting adventure ;) There will be even more action, excitement, and a lot more romance! We all love our new little addition to Harry's life! :) Like the first and second books, the story will consist of a mushed versiony-thingy of the seventh Harry Potter book and the seventh Harry Potter movie. I hope that you enjoy our "home-stretch story", and I hope you keep reviewing for me :) Ready? Set? Action.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or anything included or endorsed by Warner Brothers or J.K. Rowling :) I think that about covers it.**

2) The Seven Potters

Harry ran back upstairs to his bedroom, arriving at the window just in time to see the Dursleys' car swinging out of the drive and off up the road. Dedalus's top hat was visible between Aunt Petunia and Dudley in the backseat. The car turned right at the end of Privet Drive, its windows burned scarlet for a moment in the now setting sun, and then it was gone.

Harry picked up Hedwig's cage, his Firebolt, and his rucksack, gave his unnaturally tidy bedroom one last sweeping look, and then made his ungainly way back downstairs to the hall, where he deposited cage, broomstick, and bag near the foot of the stairs. The light was fading rapidly, the hall full of shadows in the evening light. It felt most strange to stand here in the silence and know that he was about to leave the house for the last time. Long ago, when he had been left alone while the Dursleys went out to enjoy themselves, the hours of solitude had been a rare treat. Pausing only to sneak something tasty from the fridge, he had rushed upstairs to play on Dudley's computer, or put on the television and flicked through the channels to his heart's content. It gave him an odd, empty feeling remembering those times; it was like remembering a younger brother whom he had lost.

"Don't you want to take a last look at the place?" he asked Hedwig, who was now awake but still sulking with her head under her wing. "We'll never be here again. Don't you want to remember all the good times? I mean, look at this doormat. What memories... Dudley sobbed on it after I saved him from the dementors... Turns out he was grateful after all, can you believe it?... And last summer, Dumbledore walked through that front door..."

Harry lost the thread of his thoughts for a moment and Hedwig did nothing to help him retrieve it, but continued to sit with her head under her wing. Harry turned his back on the front door.

"And under here, Hedwig"- Harry pulled open a door under the stairs- "is where I used to sleep! You never knew me then- Blimey, it's small, I'd forgotten ..."

Harry looked around at the stacked shoes and umbrellas remembering how he used to wake every morning looking up at the underside of the staircase, which was more often than not adorned with a spider or two. Those had been the days before he had known anything about his true identity; before he had found out how his parents had died or why such strange things often happened around him. But Harry could still remember the dreams that had dogged him, even in those days: confused dreams involving flashes of green light and once- Uncle Vernon had nearly crashed the car when Harry had recounted it- a flying motorbike...

There was a sudden knocking on the door, three low taps. Harry straightened, avoiding hitting the low door frame, and looked over at the door, tensed. Slowly, he turned out of the small room, shutting the little door quietly, with a sense of finality. He drew his wand out of his pocket as he approached the front door, holding it ready. He reached out with his free hand, unlocking the door, then, with a deep breath, opened the door.

"Harry!"

Something- some_one_, Harry realized- lept at him as the door opened, throwing their arms around his neck in a strangle-like hug. Thick blonde curls smacked into his face as he caught the person projectile, steadying himself. After a quick moment, the person pulled back, showing every tooth as they smiled into his face. He grinned at his girlfriend, setting her down.

"Hello, Harry!" came Hagrid's voice, floating through the door.

"Hagrid!" Harry cried in greeting.

Abigail quickly side-stepped as Ron flew next through the door, catching Harry in a brotherly hug, clapping him on the back. He moved as Hermione came through next, more calmly but with a giant smile on her face, hugging Harry tightly. His mouth felt like it might break from the widening grin on his face.

"You're looking fit!" Hagrid complimented through the doorway, bending over to look inside at him.

"Yeah, he's absolutely _gorgeous_," growled Mad-Eye sarcastically, limping through the door with two enormous bulging sacks, and whose magical eye was spinning with dizzying rapidity. "Let's say we get undercover before someone murders him," Mad-Eye said, stomping past Harry into the empty sitting room.

"Evening," Harry said, following Mad-Eye, Abigail, Ron, and Hermione into the sitting room.

More Order members started to file into the room; Mr. Weasley, kind-faced, balding, his spectacles a little awry; Fred and George, grinning identically; Bill, badly scarred and longhaired; Tonks, whose short hair was her favorite shade of bright pink; Lupin, grayer, more lined; Fleur, slender and beautiful, with her long silvery blonde hair; Kingsley, bald and broad-shouldered; Hagrid, with his wild hair and beard, standing hunchbacked to avoid hitting his head on the ceiling; and Mundungus Fletcher, small, dirty, and hangdog, with his droopy beady hound's eyes and matted hair. Harry's heart seemed to expand and glow at the sight: He felt incredibly fond of all of them, even Mundungus, whom he had tried to strangle the last time they had met.

"Kingsley, I thought you were looking after the Muggle Prime Minister," asked Harry.

"He can get along without me for one night," said Kingsley, "You're more important." Harry grinned at him.

"Hello Harry," Bill greeted, shaking his hand. "Pleasure to see you again."

"You too," said Harry.

"'Hello Harry," Fleur greeted, reaching over from Bill's side to hug him. Harry noted her improved accent, deeper now, the long drawn "'Ees" gone from her voice.

"Hi," Harry said, releasing her and looking back at Bill. "You're looking much better."

"Thanks," Bill said, smiling. "Hope to repay the favor one day." Harry nodded, smiling back.

"Well, you're still beautiful to me, William," said Fleur, stretching up to kiss his scarred cheek.

"Just remember Fleur," said Lupin, smiling gently, standing next to Tonks, "Bill takes his steaks on the raw side now." Hermione and Abigail giggled.

"My husband, the joker," said Tonks, her hand intwined with Lupin's.

"Your husband?" Harry said, stunned. "You got married?" Harry asked, looking from her to Lupin.

"I'm sorry you couldn't be there, Harry, it was very quiet," Lupin answered.

"It was so beautiful," said Abigail, smiling.

"That's brilliant, congrat-"

"All right, all right, we'll have time for a cozy catch-up later," Moody growled over the hubbub. "We've got to get the hell out of here!" Silence fell in the room. Moody dropped his sacks at his feet and turned to Harry. "As Dedalus probably told you, we had to abandon Plan A. Pius Thicknesse has gone over, which gives us a big problem. He's made it an imprisonable offense to connect this house to the Floo Network, place a Portkey here, or Apparate in or out. All done in the name of your protection, to prevent You-Know-Who getting in at you. Absolutely pointless, seeing as your mother's charm does that already. What he's really done is to stop you getting out of here safely."

"Second problem: You're underage, which means you've still got the Trace on you."

"What's the Trace?" Harry asked quickly.

"The charm that detects magical activity around under-seventeens, the way the Ministry finds out about underage magic," said Moody, somewhat impatiently. "If you sneeze the Ministry will know who wipes your nose. If you, or anyone around you, casts a spell to get you out of here, Thicknesse is going to know about it, and so will the Death Eaters. We can't wait for the Trace to break, because the moment you turn seventeen you'll lose all the protection your mother gave you. In short, Pius Thicknesse thinks he's got you cornered good and proper."

Harry could not help but agree with the unknown Thicknesse.

"Point is, we have to use those means of transport the Trace can't detect: brooms, thestrals, and the like."

Harry could see flaws in this plan; however, he held his tongue to give Mad-Eye the chance to address them.

"Now, your mother's charm will only break under two conditions: when you come of age, or"- Moody gestured around the pristine kitchen- "you no longer call this place home. You and your aunt and uncle are going your separate ways tonight, in the full understanding that you're never going to live together again, correct?"

Harry nodded.

"So this time, when you leave, there'll be no going back, and the charm will break the moment you get outside its range. We're choosing to break it early, because the alternative is waiting for You-Know-Who to come and seize you the moment you turn seventeen."

"The one thing we've got on our side is that You-Know-Who doesn't know we're moving you tonight. We've leaked a fake trail to the Ministry: They think you're not leaving until the thirtieth. However, this is You-Know-Who we're dealing with, so we can't rely on him getting the date wrong; he's bound to have a couple of Death Eaters patrolling the skies in this general area, just in case. So, we've given a dozen different houses every protection we can throw at them. They all look like they could be the place we're going to hide you, they've all got some connection with the Order: my house, Kingsley's place, Molly's Auntie Muriel's- you get the idea."

"Yeah," said Harry, not entirely truthfully, because he could still spot a gaping hole in the plan.

"You'll be going to Molly and Arthur's place. Once you're within the boundaries of the protective enchantments, you'll be safe. Any questions?"

"Er- yes," said Harry. "Maybe they won't know which of the twelve secure houses I'm heading for at first, but won't it be sort of obvious once"- he performed a quick headcount- "fourteen of us fly off toward the Burrow?"

"Ah," said Moody, "I forgot to mention the key point. "We're going in pairs, each pair heading for a different safe house where we'll take Portkeys to the Burrow. That way if anyone really is out there waiting for us- and I reckon there will be- they won't know which Harry Potter is the real one."

Harry's brows furrowed in confusion. "The real one?" He asked, mind muddled.

Moody's scarred mouth turned up into a mischievious smirk. From inside his cloak Moody now withdrew a flask of what looked like mud, holding it up for Harry's examination.

"I believe you're familiar with this particular brew," he said, popping the top with a _fwwip!_

There was no need for him to say another word; Harry understood the rest of the plan immediately. His eyes widened.

"No!" he said seriously, his voice strong in the quiet sitting room. "Absolutely not!"

"Told you he'd take it well," Hermione sighed with a hint of complacency.

"No!" Harry said again. "If you think I'm going to let everyone risk their lives for me-"

"Never done that before, have we?" said Ron.

"No-no, this is different," Harry insisted. "Taking that, becoming me- no!"

"Well, none of us really fancy it, mate," said Fred earnestly.

"Yeah," said George, "I mean, imagine if something went wrong and we ended up as screwy, specky gits forever."

Something of a shared exhausted sigh breathed throughout the crowd; Harry did not smile.

"You can't do it if I don't cooperate, you need me to give you some hair."

"Well, that's the plan scuppered," said George. "Obviously there's no chance at all of us getting a bit of your hair unless you cooperate."

"Yeah, thirteen of us against one bloke who's not allowed to use magic; we've got no chance," said Fred.

"Funny," said Harry, "really amusing."

"Everyone here is of age, Potter," growled Moody, his magical eye now quivering a little in its socket as he glared at Harry. "They've all agreed to take the risk."

"Technically," Mundugus said from near the window, "I was coerced!"

"Nip it, Mundungus!" Moody snapped, shutting him up. He looked back at Harry. "Let's have no more arguments. Time's wearing on. I want a few of your hairs, boy, now."

"But this is mad, there's no need-"

"No need!" snarled Moody. "With You-Know-Who out there and half the Ministry on his side? Potter, if we're lucky he'll have swallowed the fake bait and he'll be planning to ambush you on the thirtieth, but he'd be mad not to have a Death Eater or two keeping an eye out- it's what I'd do. They might not be able to get at you or this house while your mother's charm holds, but it's about to break and they know the rough position of the place. Our only chance is to use decoys. Even You-Know-Who can't split himself into seven."

Harry glanced at Ron, who grimaced at him in a just-do-it sort of way.

"So we're all in agreement then," said Moody. "Alright Granger, as discussed."

Harry yelped suddenly as a hank of hair was suddenly ripped from his scalp by Hermione. He reached back as she walked past him, rubbing the throbbing spot where she had torn the hair out. eached up to the top of his head, grabbed a hank of hair, and pulled.

"Blimey, Hermione!" Harry hissed in pain.

"Good," said Moody, limping forward with the open flask of potion. "Straight in here, if you please."

Carefully, Hermione dropped the hair into the mudlike liquid. The moment it made contact with its surface, the potion began to froth and smoke, then, all at once, it turned a clear, bright gold.

"Ooh, you look much tastier than Crabbe and Goyle, Harry," said Hermione, before catching sight of Ron's raised eyebrows and Abigail biting down on her fist to keep from laughing, blushing slightly, and saying, "Oh, you know what I mean- Goyle's potion tasted like bogies."

"Right then, fake Potters line up over here, please," said Moody.

Ron, Hermione, Fred, George, and Fleur lined up in front of Aunt Petunia's gleaming sink.

"We're one short," said Lupin.

Everyone looked silently away from Harry; he looked around, catching direct sight of his girlfriend. She was looking, with an unreadable expression on her face, at Tonks, who looked grim, then, with a sigh, Abigail looked away and, to Harry's horror, moved over to join the fake Potters.

"No," said Harry, shaking his head, drawing attention back to himself. "No no no no no no no."

Abigail looked almost ashamed at him. "Harry-"

"I agreed to all of this," said Harry, "agreed to letting you put my hair in that potion, agreed to let all of you"- he threw out his arms, gesturing to them- "risk your lives for me, agreed to do everything knowing that one of us could die, but I won't agree to _this_! No!"

"Harry-" Abigail said a little stronger.

"How could you let her do this?" Harry rounded on Tonks, ignoring Abigail, not bothering to try and keep down his slowing rising voice. "She's practically your daughter!"

"Harry, she's of age," Tonks said, somehow gentle and firm at the same time, keeping her temper for the time being. "I can't control the decision she made, I don't have that power anymore-"

"Then you could have done _something_!" Harry half-shouted. "Anything but this! How can you let her go out there knowing that she could die?!"

"Don't you think I know that?!" said Tonks strongly back, looking appalled. "Don't you think I _tried_ to keep her from coming?! _Tried_ to keep her out of this! I _can't do that_! Not anymore!" Tonks ignored her husband, glaring back at Harry's scowling face.

"Nymphadora, please-" Lupin tried.

"_Harry_-" Abigail said again, but once more they ignored her.

"I've loved her every day I've known her!" said Tonks forcefully. "She's everything to me, she's always been! But she's an adult now, she makes her own decisions! I'm terrified- _terrified_ tonight- because you're right! But I can't control this! Not anymore!"

"_She could die, for God's sake!_" Harry yelled.

"_I know that_!"

"_STOP IT_!" Abigail finally screamed out, bristling with anger. "_STOP IT NOW_!"

They were quiet. The whole room was silent of voices, the only noises the sounds of Abigail's heavy breathing after her loud outburst. Even the twins looked awkward in the situation.

"Both of you stop _now_," Abigail said, glaring at them, a scowl plastered across her face. "This is _my_ choice, _my_ decision, and I'm sticking by it. And you know what? _Any _of us"- she gestured around the room at their audience- "any of us could die tonight! Any one of us! Including me! But this isn't about me. This is about getting you"- she pointed at Harry- "to the Burrow safely, at the cost of our lives or not. That's final."

"Abbie-"

"It's done," Abigail said finally, cutting across Harry. "Finished." She looked over at Moody. "Get on with it."

"Alright," said Moody as the tension in the room began to ease, "remember, any Death Eaters we run into will be aiming to capture Potter, not kill him. Dumbledore always said You-Know-Who would want to finish Potter in person. It'll be the protectors who have got the most to worry about, the Death Eaters'll want to kill them."

Near Harry, Mundungus- who Harry now guessed was a protector- did not look particularly reassured, but said nothing. Moody was already pulling half a dozen eggcup-sized glasses from inside his cloak, which he handed out, before pouring a little Polyjuice Potion into each one.

"Fo those of you that haven't taken Polyjuice Potion before, fair warning," said Moody, "it tastes like goblin piss."

"Have a lot of experience with that, have you Mad-Eye?" said George, earning a glare from Moody. He shrugged his shoulders. "Just trying to diffuse the tension. Altogether, then..."

Ron, Hermione, Fred, George, Fleur, and Abigail drank. All of them gasped and grimaced as the potion hit their throats; At once, their features began to bubble and distort like hot wax. Hermione and Abigail were shooting upward; Ron, Fred, and George were shrinking; their hair was darkening. Hermione's, Abigail's, and Fleur's appeared to shoot backward into their skulls.

Moody, quite unconcerned, was now loosening the ties of the large sacks he had brought with him. When he straightened up again, there were six Harry Potters gasping and panting in front of him.

Fred and George turned to each other and said together, "Wow- we're identical!"

"I dunno, though, I think I'm still better-looking," said Fred cockily.

"Bah," said Fleur, checking herself in the window, "Bill, look away- I'm hideous."

"Those whose clothes are a bit roomy, I've got smaller here," said Moody, indicating the first sack, "and vice versa. Don't forget the glasses, there's six pairs in the side pocket. And when you're dressed, there's luggage in the other sack."

The real Harry thought that this might just be the most bizarre thing he had ever seen, and he had seen some extremely odd things. He watched as his six doppelgangers rummaged in the sacks, pulling out sets of clothes, putting on glasses, stuffing their own things away. He felt like asking them to show a little more respect for privacy as they all began stripping off with impunity, clearly more at ease with displaying his body than they would have been with their own.

"Haven't got anything a bit more sporty, have you?" One of the twins asked, examining the clothes identical to Harry's own.

"Yeah, I don't really fancy this color," said the other, holding up a red shirt.

"Fancy this: you're not you," said Moody. "So shut it and strip."

"I knew you were lying about that tattoo," Ron said to Abigail, looking down at his- _Harry's_, Harry thought- bare chest. She smirked; it was odd for Harry to watch her do it with his own mouth.

"Harry, your eyesight really is awful," said Hermione as she put on glasses.

Once dressed, the fake Harrys took rucksacks and owl cages, each containing a stuffed snowy owl, from the second sack.

"Good," said Moody, as at last seven dressed, bespectacled, and luggage-laden Harrys faced him. "The pairs will be as follows: Arthur and Fred-"

"I'm George," said the twin at whom Moody was pointing. "Can't you even tell us apart when we're Harry?"

"Sorry, George-"

"I'm only yanking your wand, I'm Fred really-"

"Enough messing around!" snarled Moody. "The other one-George or Fred or whoever you are- you're with Remus. Miss Delacour-"

"I'm taking Fleur on a thestral," said Bill. "She's not that fond of brooms."

Fleur walked over to stand beside him, giving him a soppy, slavish look that Harry hoped with all his heart would never appear on his face again.

"Miss Granger with Kingsley, again by thestral-"

Hermione looked reassured as she answered Kingsley's smile; Harry knew that Hermione too lacked confidence on a broomstick.

"Miss Black will be traveling with me and Mundungus by broom-"

"Why'm I with you and 'er too?" grunted Mundungus.

"Because she's not the only one that needs watching," growled Moody, his magical eye not wavering from Mundungus. Abigail snickered a bit, but looked comfortable with her grouping.

"Which leaves you and me, Ron!" said Tonks brightly, seeming to have forgotten her anger over her spat with Harry, knocking over a mug tree as she waved at him.

Ron did not look quite as pleased as Abigail and Hermione.

"As for Harry," said Moody, "you'll ride with Hagrid."

"I brought yeh here sixteen years ago when you were no bigger than a Bowtruckle," said Hagrid kindly, smiling at Harry. "Seems only righ' that... that _I_ should be the one ter take yeh away now."

Despite everything, Harry smiled back, genuinely thankful, overwhelming emotions swooping through him for his giant friend. Hagrid wiped at his eyes, grunting, but still smiling back.

"Yeah, it's all very touching," said Moody. "Anyhow, we think the Death Eaters will expect you to be on a broom," said Moody. "Snape's had plenty of time to tell them everything about you he's never mentioned before, so if we do run into any Death Eaters, we're betting they'll choose one of the Potters who looks at home on a broomstick. All right then," he went on, tying up the sack with the fake Potters' clothes in it and leading the way back to the front door, "I make it three minutes until we're supposed to leave. No point locking the door, it won't keep the Death Eaters out when they come looking. Come on..."

Harry hurried to gather his rucksack, Firebolt, and Hedwig's cage and followed the group into the dark street. On every side broomsticks were leaping into hands; Hermione had already been helped up onto a great black thestral by Kingsley, Fleur onto the other by Bill. Hagrid was standing ready beside the motorbike, goggles on.

Harry hesitated, then looked over at Abigail, who was standing near Moody, about to mount her broom. In a split second he quickly moved over, thoughts forming in his head as he approached.

"Abbie- hey, Abbie."

She looked at him expectantly. It was the strangest thing; Harry had to remind himself these were his own eyes he was looking into. The likeness between his eyes and her real ones- they were almost identical now that he really looked.

"Just... just... please be careful," he said to her, his voice falling low at the last part. "If you don't- I mean if I don't see you- I- I mean-" He took a deep breath, steeling himself. "Just- just make it. Just make it, okay? Make it."

Her- _his_- face fell soft and in an instant her- _his_- arms were around Harry's neck, her- _his_- head on his shoulder. Harry could only imagine how odd this looked to the others, himself hugging himself, but he didn't care as he hugged her back, awkwardly squeezing her, yet trying to put every fearful, terrified, emotional feeling he had into the embrace, imagining that she was shorter than him again and that her hair was long and soft again and that her body fit most perfectly into his again and that he could smell that strawberry and pine and chocolate scent that she always had-

"Let's go Potter!" Moody's irritable voice broke them apart. "We've only got a moment left."

"Good luck Harry," Abigail whispered, touching his cheek gently.

"Yeah, yeah you too," he said softly, then, with a last, sparing look at her, Harry rushed back over to Hagrid's side.

"Is this it? Is this Sirius's bike?" He asked Hagrid, who was all set on the bike.

"The very same," said Hagrid, beaming down at Harry. "An' the last time yeh was on it, Harry, I could fit yeh in one hand!"

Harry could not help but feel a little humiliated as he got into the sidecar. It placed him several feet below everybody else: Ron smirked at the sight of him sitting there like a child in a bumper car. Harry stuffed his rucksack and broomstick down by his feet and rammed Hedwig's cage between his knees. He was extremely uncomfortable.

"Arthur's done a bit o' tinkerin'," said Hagrid, quite oblivious to Harry's discomfort. "It's got a few tricks up its sleeves now. Tha' one was my idea." He pointed a thick finger at a purple button near the speedometer.

"Please be careful, Hagrid." said Mr. Weasley, who was standing beside them, holding his broomstick. "I'm still not sure that was advisable and it's certainly only to be used in emergencies."

"All right, then." said Moody. "Everyone ready, please. I want us all to leave at exactly the same time or the whole point of the diversion's lost."

Everybody motioned their heads. "Hold tight now, Ron," said Tonks, and Harry saw Ron throw a forcing, guilty look at Lupin before placing his hands on each side of her waist. Hagrid kicked the motorbike into life: It roared like a dragon, and the sidecar began to vibrate. Hedwig sqwacked unpleasantly.

"Ringht!" Harry reminded himself. He reached over his knees, undoing the cage's lock and sliding the door away. "As promised," he said as Hedwig flew out, gracefully sailing over them and into the sky, looking happy and free.

"Good luck, everyone," shouted Moody as Hedwig disappeared behind a thicket of dark clouds. "See you all in about an hour at the Burrow. On the count of three. One... two... THREE!"

There was a great roar from the motorbike, and Harry felt the sidecar give a nasty lurch. He was rising through the air fast, his eyes watering slightly, hair whipped back off his face. Around him brooms were soaring upward too; the long black tail of a thestral flicked past. His legs, jammed into the sidecar by Hedwig's cage and his rucksack, were already sore and starting to go numb. So great was his discomfort that he almost forgot to take a last glimpse of number four Privet Drive. By the time he looked over the edge of the sidecar he could no longer tell which one it was.

And then, as they entered the clouds, out of nowhere, out of nothing, they were surrounded. At least thirty hooded figures, suspended in midair, formed a vast circle in the middle of which the Order members had risen, oblivious-

Screams, a blaze of green light on every side: flashes of white and colored lights were flying, there was fighting everywhere. Sparks hit the bike, ricocheting off very close to Harry and Hagrid. Hagrid gave a yell and the motorbike rolled over as green flashes of light shot past them. Harry lost any sense of where they were. Streetlights above him, yells around him, he was clinging to the sidecar for dear life. Hedwig's cage, the Firebolt, and his rucksack slipped from beneath his knees, Harry let out a yell-

"Hold on, Harry!" Hagrid shouted, and with a grunt swung the motorbike the right way up again. Harry, holding on to the sidecar and his things with all of his might, let out a huff. A split-second, unnatural moment of relief passed before lights were once more shooting part their heads.

Harry pulled out his wand, ducking as a pair of cloaked figures soared over his head, and opened his mouth, ready to cast a spell, when Hagrid sped up, almost knocking Harry once more out of the side car. Harry gripped the sides of the car as Hagid shot through the fight, speeding past friends and enemies, dodging bolts and flashes of multicolored lights, zooming past everything and through the thicket, speeding away with Harry-

"Hagrid!" Harry shouted, somewhat desperate, looking back at the fight. "Hagrid, we have to help the others!"

"I can' do that, 'Arry!" Hagrid yelled back. "Mad-Eye's orders!"

"Hagrid, we've got to go back, we've got to go back!" he yelled over the thunderous roar of the engine, trying to make Hagrid see his reason. "Hagrid, TURN AROUND!"

"My job's ter get you there safe, Harry!" bellow Hagrid, and he opened the throttle, shooting them faster through the air.

"Stop- STOP!" Harry shouted, but as he looked back again two jets of green light flew past his left ear: Four Death Eaters had broken away from the circle and were pursuing them, aiming for Hagrid's broad back. Hagrid swerved, but the Death Eaters were keeping up with the bike; more curses shot after them, and Harry had to sink low into the sidecar to avoid them. Wriggling around he cried, "_Stupefy_!" and a red bolt of light shot from his own wand, cleaving a gap between the four pursuing Death Eaters as they scattered to avoid it.

"Hold on, Harry, this'll do for 'em!" roared Hagrid, and Harry looked up just in time to see Hagrid slamming a thick finger into a green button near the fuel gauge. A wall, a solid black wall, erupted out of the exhaust pipe. Craning his neck, Harry saw it expand into being in midair. Three of the Death Eaters swerved and avoided it, but the fourth was not so lucky; He vanished from view and then dropped like a boulder from behind it, his broomstick broken into pieces. One of his fellows slowed up to save him, but they and the airborne wall were swallowed by darkness as Hagrid leaned low over the handlebars and sped up.

More Killing Curses flew past Harry's head from the two remaining Death Eaters' wands; they were aiming for Hagrid. Harry responded with further Stunning Spells: Red and green collided in midair in a shower of multicolored sparks, and Harry thought wildly of fireworks, and the Muggles below who would have no idea what was happening-

"Here we go again, Harry, hold on!" yelled Hagrid, and he jabbed at a second button. This time a great net burst from the bike's exhaust, but the Death Eaters were ready for it. Not only did they swerve to avoid it, but the companion who had slowed to save their unconscious friend had caught up. He bloomed suddenly out of the darkness and now three of them were pursuing the motorbike, all shooting curses after it.

"This'll do it, Harry, hold on tight!" yelled Hagrid, and Harry saw him slam his whole hand onto the purple button beside the speedometer.

With an unmistakable bellowing roar, dragon fire burst from the exhaust, white-hot and blue, and the motorbike shot forward like a bullet with a sound of wrenching metal. Harry saw the Death Eaters swerve out of sight to avoid the deadly trail of flame, and at the same time felt the sidecar sway ominously: Its metal connections to the bike had splintered with the force of acceleration.

"It's all righ', Harry!" bellowed Hagrid, now thrown flat onto the back by the surge of speed; nobody was steering now, and the sidecar was starting to twist violently in the bike's slipstream.

"I'm on it, Harry, don' worry!" Hagrid yelled, and from inside his jacket pocket he pulled his flowery pink umbrella.

"Hagrid! No! Let me!"

"_REPARO_!"

There was a deafening bang and the sidecar broke away from the bike completely. Harry sped forward, propelled by the impetus of the bike's flight, then the sidecar began to lose height-

In desperation Harry pointed his wand at the sidecar and shouted, "_Wingardium Leviosa_!"

The sidecar rose like a cork, unsteerable but at least still airborne. He had but a split second's relief, however, as more curses streaked past him: The three Death Eaters were closing in.

"I'm comin', Harry!" Hagrid yelled from out of the darkness, but Harry could feel the sidecar beginning to sink again: Crouching as low as he could, he pointed at the middle of the oncoming figures and yelled, "_Impedimenta_!"

The jinx hit the middle Death Eater in the chest; For a moment the man was absurdly spread-eagled in midair as though he had hit an invisible barrier: One of his fellows almost collided with him-

Then the sidecar began to fall in earnest, and the remaining Death Eater shot a curse so close to Harry that he had to duck below the rim of the car, knocking out a tooth on the edge of his seat-

"I'm comin', Harry, I'm comin'!"

A huge hand seized the back of Harry's robes and hoisted him out of the plummeting sidecar; Harry pulled his rucksack with him as he dragged himself onto the motorbike's seat and found himself back-to-back with Hagrid. As they soared upward, away from the two remaining Death Eaters, Harry spat blood out of his mouth, pointed his wand at the falling sidecar, and yelled, "_Confringo_!" The Death Eater nearest it was blasted off his broom and fell from sight; his companion fell back and vanished.

"Harry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," moaned Hagrid, "I shouldn'ta tried ter repair it meself- yeh've got no room-"

"It's not a problem, just keep flying!" Harry shouted back, as two more Death Eaters emerged out of the darkness, drawing closer.

As the curses came shooting across the intervening space again, Hagrid swerved and zigzagged: Harry knew that Hagrid did not dare use the dragon-fire button again, with Harry seated so insecurely. Harry sent Stunning Spell after Stunning Spell back at their pursuers, barely holding them off. He shot another blocking jinx at them: The closest Death Eater swerved to avoid it and his hood slipped, and by the red light of his next Stunning Spell, Harry saw the strangely blank face of Stanley Shunpike- Stan-

"_Expelliarmus_!" Harry yelled. His spell shot past Stan, just as Stan raised his wand, his blank face terrifying in the clouded light, pointed straight at Harry-

A screech echoed suddenly through the sky, and suddenly Stan's wand lowered, his head flying back as Hedwig slammed her body into his face, throwing Stan off course and almost off of his broom. Hedwig sqwacked, throwing herself again into another one's face, throwing him off course for a good moment, long enough for Harry to Stun him, watching as he fell through the air.

Another moment of relief, a split second, just a breath, and then another burst of green light shot through the air, and with a hoot Hedwig was falling, falling out of the air, motionless, disappearing through the clouds and out of sight, gone.

"NO- NO! HEDWIG!" Harry screamed. He could not take it in, and his terror for the others was still paramount, thumping around in his being. He looked up, blinking unpronounced tears from his eyes, seeing just two people moving, flying before him, but no longer casting- _why weren't they casting_-

"That's him, it's him, it's the real one!"

The hooded Death Eater's shout reached Harry even above the thunder of the motorbike's engine: Next moment, the remaining pursuers had fallen back and disappeared from view.

"Harry, what's happened?" bellowed Hagrid. "Where've they gone?"

"I don't know!"

But Harry was afraid: The hooded Death Eater had shouted, "It's the real one!"; how had he known? He gazed around at the apparently empty darkness and felt its menace. Where were they?

He clambered around on the seat to face forward and seized hold of the back of Hagrid's jacket.

"Hagrid, do the dragon-fire thing again, let's get out of here!"

"Hold on tight, then, Harry!"

There was a deafening, screeching roar again and the white-blue fire shot from the exhaust: Harry felt himself slipping backwards off what little of the seat he had. Hagrid flung backward upon him, barely maintaining his grip on the handlebars-

"I think we've lost 'em Harry, I think we've done it!" yelled Hagrid.

But Harry was not convinced; Fear lapped at him as he looked left and right for pursuers he was sure would come... Why had they fallen back? One of them had still had a wand... _It's him_..._ it's the real one_... They had said it right after he had tried to Disarm Stan... right after Hedwig had been lost to him, to the world...

"We're nearly there, Harry, we've nearly made it!" shouted Hagrid.

Harry felt the bike drop a little, though the lights down on the ground still seemed remote as stars.

Then the scar on his forehead burned like fire, exploding; as a Death Eater appeared on either side of the bike, two Killing Curses missed Harry by millimeters, cast from behind-

And then Harry saw him. Voldemort was flying like smoke on the wind, without broomstick or thestral to hold him, his snake-like face gleaming out of the blackness, his white fingers raising his wand again-

Hagrid let out a bellow of fear and steered the motorbike into a vertical dive. Clinging on for dear life, Harry sent Stunning Spells flying at random into the whirling night. He saw a body fly past him and knew he had hit one of them, but then he heard a bang and saw sparks from the engine; the motorbike spiraled through the air, completely out of control-

Green jets of light shot past them again. Harry had no idea which way was up, which down: His scar was still burning; he expected to die at any second. A hooded figure on a broomstick was feet from him, he saw it raise its arm-

"NO!"

With a shout of fury Hagrid launched himself off the bike at the Death Eater; to his horror, Harry saw both Hagrid and the Death Eater, falling out of sight, their combined weight too much for the broomstick-

Barely gripping the plummeting bike with his knees, Harry heard Voldemort scream,_ "Mine!"_

It was over: He could not see or hear where Voldemort was; he glimpsed another Death Eater swooping out of the way and heard, _"Avada-"_

As the pain from Harry's scar forced his eyes shut, his wand acted of its own accord. He felt it drag his hand around like some great magnet, saw a spurt of golden fire through his half-closed eyelids, heard a crack and a scream of fury. The remaining Death Eater yelled; Voldemort screamed, _"No!" _Somehow, Harry found his nose an inch from the dragon-fire button. He punched it with his wand-free hand and the bike shot more flames into the air, hurtling straight toward the ground.

"Hagrid!" Harry called, holding on to the bike for dear life. "Hagrid- _Accio Hagrid!"_

The motorbike sped up, sucked towards the earth. Face level with the handlebars, Harry could see nothing but distant lights growing nearer and nearer: He was going to crash and there was nothing he could do about it. Behind him came another scream, _"Your wand, Selwyn, give me your wand!"_

He felt Voldemort before he saw him. Looking sideways, he stared into the red eyes and was sure they would be the last thing he ever saw: Voldemort preparing to curse him once more-

And then Voldemort vanished. Harry looked down and saw Hagrid spread-eagled on the ground below him. He pulled hard at the handlebars to avoid hitting him, groped for the brake, but with an earsplitting, ground trembling crash, he smashed into a muddy stream.

For a moment Harry just lay still, listening in the silence as the bike's engine finally went silence, with a final groan. He gasped for breath, the pain in his scar starting to finally fade away, then, with all his might, he began to struggle, trying to get up. He caught sight of the great dark mass on the ground just feet away that he knew was Hagrid.

"Hagrid?"

Harry struggled to raise himself out of the debris of metal and leather that surrounded him; his hands sank into inches of muddy water as he tried to stand. He could not understand where Voldemort had gone and expected him to swoop out of the darkness at any moment. Something hot and wet was trickling down his chin and from his forehead. He crawled out of the pond and stumbled toward the too-still giant.

"Hagrid? Hagrid, talk to me-"

But the dark mass did not stir.

_"Harry! HARRY! HARRY!"_

There was something vaguely familiar about the voice screaming at him, about the girlish tone calling his name. Harry looked up, using all of his strength: a blurry but familiar building stood not too far off. Lights shone from it, piercing through the blackness. Two figures- one thin and tall and the other shorter and bigger were rushing toward them quickly, only their shadowed sillouettes visible.

Numbly, Harry looked back at Hagrid as someone else- another woman, it sounded like, most likely the two now racing through the stream toward him- shouted back at the building. "They've crashed! Ted! Ted, help us! Ginny! Ginny, wait!"

Harry's head was swimming, his vision was going dark.

"Hagrid," he repeated stupidly, and his knees buckled as his mind went black.

**Soooooooo :P**

**I wish I had gotten this up last week -_- I feel so unaccomplished getting it up now, only half an hour or so before it's late. UGGH. **

**I've just really had a lot on my plate lately :P With advanced work and guard and yadda yadda you've heard this all before :| I've just had so little time to rest or write. WELL TODAY I DID BOTH O..O TAKE THAT UNJUST SOCIAL SCHOOL SYSTEM. HA HA.**

**... I think I'm going crazy :P... -ier than usual... I'm just going to go to sleep now.**

**Don't forget to review!**

**Next Update: 9/29/12 OR 10/6/12**


	3. Chapter 3

How Three Became Four

**BUM BUM BUM! :) Here we are readers, at the third and final book of the How Three Became Four series! I can't believe we've finally made it! I hope you're all excited! After the actionated, romanticised, wild adventures of Harry's sixth year, we now come to what would be his seventh, if not, per say, he was going on quite the interesting adventure ;) There will be even more action, excitement, and a lot more romance! We all love our new little addition to Harry's life! :) Like the first and second books, the story will consist of a mushed versiony-thingy of the seventh Harry Potter book and the seventh Harry Potter movie. I hope that you enjoy our "home-stretch story", and I hope you keep reviewing for me :) Ready? Set? Action.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or anything included or endorsed by Warner Brothers or J.K. Rowling :) I think that about covers it.**

3) Rendezvous

The next thing Harry knew, he was lying on his back on what felt like cushions, with a burning sensation in his ribs and right arm. The blood from his face had been cleaned away. The scar on his forehead was still throbbing.

"Hagrid?"

He opened his eyes and saw that he was lying on a sofa in an incredibly familiar, lamplit sitting room, crammed with incredibly familiar objects, wizard and muggle alike. His rucksack lay on the incredibly familiar floor a short distance away, wet and muddy. A quite _unfamiliar_fair-haired, big-bellied man was watching Harry anxiously.

"Hagrid's fine, son," said the man, "Molly and my wife are seeing to him now. How are you feeling? Anything else broken? I've fixed your ribs, your tooth, and your arm. I'm Ted, by the way, Ted Tonks- Dora's father."

Harry sat up too quickly. Lights popped in front of his eyes and he felt sick and giddy.

"Voldemort-"

"Easy, now," said Ted Tonks, placing a hand on Harry's shoulder and pushing him back against the cushions. "That was a nasty crash you just had. What happened, anyway? Something go wrong with the bike? Arthur Weasley overstretch himself again, him and his Muggle contraptions?"

"No," said Harry, as his scar pulsed like an open wound. "Death Eaters, loads of them- we were chased-"

"Death Eaters?" said Ted sharply. "What d'you mean, Death Eaters? I thought they didn't know you were being moved tonight, I thought-"

"They knew," said Harry.

Ted Tonks looked up at the ceiling as though he could see through it to the sky above.

"Well, we know the protective charms hold, then, don't we? They shouldn't be able to get within a hundred yards of the place in any direction."

Now Harry understood why Voldemort had vanished; it had been at the point when the motorbike crossed the barrier of the Order's charms on the Burrow. He only hoped they would continue to work: He imagined Voldemort, a hundred yards above them as they spoke, looking for a way to penetrate what Harry visualized as a great transparent bubble.

He swung his legs off the sofa; he needed to see Hagrid with his own eyes before he would believe that he was alive. He had barely stood up, however, when a door opened and Hagrid squeezed through it, his face covered in mud and blood, limping a little but miraculously alive.

"Harry!"

Knocking over two delicate tables and an aspidistra, he covered the floor between them in two strides and pulled Harry into a hug that nearly cracked his newly repaired ribs. "Blimey, Harry, how did yeh get out o' that? I thought we were both goners."

"Yeah, me too. I can't believe-"

Harry broke off. He had just noticed the woman who had entered the room behind Hagrid.

"You!" he shouted, and he thrust his hand into his pocket, but it was empty.

"Your wand's here, son," said Ted, tapping it on Harry's arm. "It fell right beside you, I picked it up. And that's my wife you're shouting at."

"Oh, I'm- I'm sorry."

As she moved forward into the room, Mrs. Tonks's resemblance to her sister Bellatrix became much less pronounced: Her hair was a light soft brown and her eyes were wider and kinder. Nevertheless, she looked a little haughty after Harry's exclamation.

"What happened to our daughter?" she asked. "Hagrid said you were ambushed; where is Nymphadora? And Abigail? Where is she? Where is our granddaughter?"

"I don't know," said Harry. "We don't know what happened to anyone else."

She and Ted exchanged looks. A mixture of fear and guilt gripped Harry at the sight of their expressions, if any of the others had died, it was his fault, all his fault. He had consented to the plan, given them his hair...

"Dora'll be ok, 'Dromeda," said Ted. "She knows her stuff, she's been in plenty of tight spots with the Aurors. The others, however," he added to Harry, "the others should have been back already."

Harry had nothing to say, so he just looked away a bit awkwardly. He looked at Mrs. Tonks, wanting to apologize for the state of fear in which he had her and for which he felt so terribly responsible, but no words occurred to him that he did not seem hollow and insincere.

"Wait a moment," said Hagrid, looking around. "Harry, where's Hedwig?"

"She... she got hit," said Harry.

The realization crashed over him: He felt ashamed of himself as the tears stung his eyes. The owl had been his companion, his one great link with the magical world whenever he had been forced to return to the Dursleys.

Hagrid reached out a great hand and patted him painfully on the shoulder.

"Never mind," he said gruffly, "Never mind. She had a great old life..."

Harry sniffed, stiffling any threatening tears warning to come.

"Molly and Ginny are out in the back garden, son" said Ted Tonks to Harry. "They'll want to see you're all right. They're both in quite a right state."

Harry nodded to him. "Thanks," he said, as sincerely as he could muster. He avoided Mrs. Tonks distraught gaze as he left; he was glad to leave the room and follow Hagrid through the kitchen and into the backyard.

The sky was unnervingly calm as Harry and Hagrid walked across the yard of the Burrow. They walked toward two darkened sillouettes just yards away; the shadows watched the sky, their bodies tight as drawn bowstrings, waiting. As Harry approached with Hagrid, the two shapes turned, revealing the stricken faces of Mrs. Weasley and Ginny.

"Harry!" Mrs. Weasley said, sounding greatly relieved upon seeing him. The two hurried toward them. Ginny got there first, throwing her arms around him in a tight hug. He reciprocated, patting her gently on the back. As Ginny pulled away, Mrs. Weasley did the same, squeezing Harry with desperate furvor; Harry hugged gently back, retaining his breathing.

"Harry? You are the real Harry? What happened? Have you heard from the others?" cried Mrs. Weasley, pulling back to look at him.

"There's still no one else back?" Harry asked, his insides twisting painfully.

The answer was clearly etched in Mrs. Weasley's pale face.

"The Death Eaters were waiting for us," Harry told her, "We were surrounded the moment we took off- they knew it was tonight- I don't know what happened to anyone else, four of them chased us, it was all we could do to get away, and then Voldemort caught up with us-"

He could hear the self-justifying note in his voice, the plea for her to understand why he did not know what had happened to her sons, but-

"Well, thank goodness you two are all right," she said, pulling him into another hug he did not feel he deserved.

"Haven't go' any brandy, have yeh, Molly?" asked Hagrid a little shakily, "Fer medicinal purposes?"

She could have summoned it by magic, but as she hurried back toward the crooked house, Harry knew that she wanted to hide her face. He turned to Ginny and she answered his unspoken plea for information at once.

"Ron and Tonks should have been back first, but they missed their Portkey, it came back without them," she said, pointing at a rusty oil can lying on the ground nearby. "And that one," she pointed at an ancient sneaker, "should have been Dad and Fred's, they were supposed to be second. You and Hagrid were third and," she checked her watch, "if they made it, George and Lupin ought to be back in about a minute."

Mrs. Weasley reappeared carrying a bottle of brandy, which she handed to Hagrid. He uncorked it and drank it straight down in one.

"Mum!" shouted Ginny pointing to a spot several feet away.

With a crack, a blue light appeared in the darkness: It grew larger and brighter, and Lupin and George appeared, spinning and then falling. Harry knew immediately that there was something wrong: Lupin was supporting George, who was unconscious and whose face was covered in blood.

"Here!" Lupin shouted for help. "Quick! Into the house!"

Harry ran forward and threw George's arm over his shoulders, supporting his other side. Together, he and Lupin carried George into the house and through the kitchen to the living room (Harry was vaguely aware of Ted Tonks' and his wife's absense), where they laid him on the sofa. As the lamplight fell across George's head, Ginny gasped and Harry's stomach lurched: One of George's ears was missing. The side of his head and neck were drenched in wet, shockingly scarlet blood.

No sooner had Mrs. Weasley bent over her son that Lupin suddenly grabbed Harry by the shirt, jerking him harshly away and pinning him against the wall, his wand pointed straight at Harry's face.

"Lupin!" said Hagrid indignantly, who was still attempting to ease his bulk through the back door.

"What are you doing?" Ginny cried in shock.

Lupin ignored them, staring dead into Harry's eyes, his breathing ragged. Harry stared back with wide eyes.

"What... creature... sat in the corner... the first time Harry Potter visited my office in Hogwarts?" Lupin demanded raspily.

"Are you mad?!" Harry exclaimed.

_"What creature?!"_ Lupin shouted.

"A- a grindylow!" Harry answered quickly, his heart pounding.

A small moment of quiet passed, Lupin still staring into Harry's wide eyes, looking still almost unsure, but then, with a sigh, Lupin pulled away, releasing Harry. The suspiscion and anger faded from his face and his body slumped; he suddenly looked very weak and very. very tired.

"We've been betrayed," Lupin began to explain. "Voldemort knew you were being moved tonight and the only people who could have told him were directly involved in the plan. I had to make sure you weren't an imposter."

Harry nodded, trying to slow his heart beat.

"So why aren' you checkin' me?" panted Hagrid, still struggling with the door.

"You're half-giant," said Lupin, looking up at Hagrid. "The Polyjuice Potion is designed for human use only."

"None of the Order would have told Voldemort we were moving tonight," said Harry. The idea was dreadful to him, he could not believe it of any of them. "Voldemort only caught up with me toward the end, he didn't know which one I was in the beginning. If he'd been in on the plan he'd have known from the start I was the one with Hagrid."

"Voldemort caught up with you?" said Lupin sharply. "What happened? How did you escape?"

Harry explained how the Death Eaters pursuing them had seemed to recognize him as the true Harry, how they had abandoned the chase, how they must have summoned Voldemort, who had appeared just before he and Hagrid had reached the sanctuary of the Burrow.

"They recognized you? But how? What had you done?"

"I..." Harry tried to remember; the whole journey seemed like a blur of panic and confusion. "I saw Stan Shunpike... You know, the bloke who was the conductor on the Knight Bus? And I tried to Disarm him instead of- well, he doesn't know what he's doing, does he? He must be Imperiused!"

Lupin looked aghast.

"Harry, the time for Disarming is past! These people are trying to capture and kill you! At least Stun if you aren't prepared to kill!"

"We were hundreds of feet up! Stan's not himself, and if I Stunned him and he'd fallen, he'd have died the same as if I'd used Avada Kedavra! Expelliarmus saved me from Voldemort two years ago," Harry added defiantly. Lupin was reminding him of the sneering Hufflepuff Zacharias Smith, who had jeered at Harry for wanting to teach Dumbledore's Army how to Disarm.

"Yes, Harry," said Lupin with painful restraint, "and a great number of Death Eaters witnessed that happening! Forgive me, but it was a very unusual move then, under the imminent threat of death. Repeating it tonight in front of Death Eaters who either witnessed or heard about the first occasion was close to suicidal!"

"So you think I should have killed Stan Shunpike?" said Harry angrily.

"Of course not," said Lupin, "but the Death Eaters- frankly, most people!- would have expected you to attack back! Expelliarmus is a useful spell, Harry, but the Death Eaters seem to think it is your signature move, and I urge you not to let it become so!"

Lupin was making Harry feel idiotic, and yet there was still a grain of defiance inside him.

"I won't blast people out of my way just because they're there," said Harry, "That's Voldemort's job."

Lupin's retort was lost: Finally succeeding in squeezing through the door, Hagrid staggered to a chair and sat down; it collapsed beneath him. Ignoring his mingled oaths and apologies, Harry addressed Lupin again.

"Will George be okay?"

All Lupin's frustration with Harry seemed to drain away at the question.

"I think so, although there's no chance of replacing his ear, not when it's been cursed off-"

There was a sudden crack and scuffling from outside. Lupin dived for the back door; Harry leapt over Hagrid's legs and sprinted into the yard.

Two figures had appeared in the yard, and as Harry ran toward them he realized they were Hermione, now returning to her normal appearance, and Kingsley, both clutching a bent coat hanger. Hermione flung herself into Harry's arms, but Kingsley showed no pleasure at the sight of any of them. Over Hermione's shoulder Harry saw him raise his wand and point it at Lupin's chest; Lupin did the same.

"The last words Albus Dumbledore spoke to the pair of us," Kingsley said quietly.

"'Harry is the best hope we have. Trust him,'" said Lupin calmly.

Kingsley turned his wand on Harry, but Lupin said, "It's him, I've checked!"

"All right, all right!" said Kingsley, stowing his wand back beneath his cloak, "But somebody betrayed us! They knew, they knew it was tonight!"

"So it seems," replied Lupin, "but apparently they did not realize that there would be seven Harrys."

"Small comfort!" snarled Kingsley. "Who else is back?"

"Only Harry, Hagrid, George, and me."

Hermione stifled a little moan behind her hand.

"What happened to you?" Lupin asked Kingsley.

"Followed by five, injured two, might've killed one," Kingsley reeled off, "and we saw You-Know-Who as well, he joined the chase halfway through but vanished pretty quickly. Remus, he can-"

"Fly," supplied Harry. "I saw him too, he came after Hagrid and me."

"So that's why he left, to follow you!" said Kingsley, "I couldn't understand why he'd vanished. But what made him change targets?"

"Harry behaved a little too kindly to Stan Shunpike," said Lupin.

"Stan?" repeated Hermione. "But I thought he was in Azkaban?"

Kingsley let out a mirthless laugh.

"Miss Granger, there's obviously been a mass breakout which the Ministry has hushed up. Travers's hood fell off when I cursed him, he's supposed to be inside too. But what happened to you, Remus? Where's George?"

"He lost an ear," said Lupin.

"Lost an-?" repeated Hermione in a high voice.

"Snape's work," said Lupin.

_"Snape?"_shouted Harry. "You didn't say-"

"He lost his hood during the chase. Sectumsempra was always a specialty of Snape's. I wish I could say I'd paid him back in kind, but it was all I could do to keep George on the broom after he was injured, he was losing so much blood."

Silence fell between the four of them as they looked up at the sky. There was no sign of movement; the stars stared back, unblinking, indifferent, unobscured by flying friends. Where was Ron? Where were Fred and Mr. Weasley? Where were Bill, Fleur, Tonks, Mad-Eye, and Mundungus? Where was- Harry swallowed thickly- where was Abigail?

The minutes stretched into what might as well have been years. Harry said nothing. He had been trying to keep fear at bay ever since reaching the Burrow, but now it enveloped him, seeming to crawl over his skin, throbbing in his chest, clogging his throat.

Kingsley was striding backward and forward, glancing up at the sky every time he turned. Harry was reminded of Uncle Vernon pacing the living room a million years ago. Harry, Hermione, and Lupin stood shoulder to shoulder, gazing upward in silence.

The slightest breath of wind made them all jump and turn toward the whispering bush or tree in the hope that one of the missing Order members might leap unscathed from its leaves-

And then a broom materialized directly above them and streaked toward the ground-

"It's them!" screamed Hermione.

Tonks landed in a long skid that sent earth and pebbles everywhere.

"Remus!" Tonks cried as she staggered off the broom into Lupin's arms. His face was set and white: He seemed unable to speak, Ron tripped dazedly toward Harry and Hermione.

"You're okay," he mumbled, before Hermione flew at him and hugged him tightly.

"Thanks," Ron grinned as she pulled back.

"Deserves that," said Tonks warmly, relinquishing her hold on Lupin. "Brilliant he was. Wonderful. Stunned one of the Death Eaters, straight to the head. I wouldn't be standing here without him."

"Really?" said Hermione, gazing up at Ron with wonderous eyes.

"Always the tone of surprise," he said jokingly. Hermione smiled, pulling the fake glasses from his eyes.

And then, with unspeakable emotions racing through him that he could not comprehend all at once, Harry was running at them at full speed, pulling both into a messy three-way hug, holding on to his best friends with all he had. A gasp of relief slid from all of their mouths, holding tight to one another.

"Are we the last back?" Ron asked as the three pulled away.

"No," said Hermione, "we're still waiting for your dad and Fred and Bill and Fleur and Abbie and Mad-Eye and Mundungus."

"So what kept you? What happened?" Lupin sounded almost angry at Tonks.

"Bellatrix," said Tonks. "She wants me quite as much as she wants Harry, Remus. She tried very hard to kill me. I just wish I'd got her, I owe Bellatrix. But we definitely injured Rodolphus... Then we got to Ron's Auntie Muriel's and we missed our Portkey and she was fussing over us-"

A muscle was jumping in Lupin's jaw. He nodded, but seemed unable to say anything else.

"So what happened to you lot?" Tonks asked, turning to Harry, Hermione, and Kingsley.

They recounted the stories of their own journeys, but all the time the continued absence of Bill, Fleur, Abbie, Mad-Eye, and Mundungus seemed to lie upon them like a frost, its icy bite harder and harder to ignore.

A thunderous crack and flash of blue light suddenly appeared just feet from the group, revealing Fred and Mr. Weasley, looking bruised and bloody, but wearing triumphant looks on their faces. Mr. Weasley patted Fred on the back as they approached the group, and Fred grinned at his father.

"Are we the last back?" Mr. Weasley asked, just like his son had only moments before.

"No, we're still missing Bill, Fleur, Abbie, Mad-Eye, and Mundungus," said Tonks, turning away from her husband to face Mr. Weasley.

"Where's George?"

The whole group fell into a sudden silence, breath catching in their throats. They all looked carefully at Mr. Weasley and Fred. The two slowed, coming to a stop before the group. The grinned slowly slid off of their faces, replaced with sudden unerved looks. They looked into the groups faces with careful contemptment.

"Remus," said Mr. Weasley slowly, probing Lupin's face with serious eyes. "Remus, where's my son?"

Remus swallowed. "He's... he's in the house, Arthur. But- but Arthur-"

Remus didn't have a chance to finish: Fred and Mr. Weasley had already sped off for the house, fearful looks on their faces. The group sadly watched their shapes as the two reached the house, nearly tripping over themselves to get inside. They all stared at the back door for a moment, a cloud of discomfort hanging over them.

After a long, silent moment, Kingsley spoke:

"I'm going to have to get back to Downing Street, I should have been there an hour ago," said Kingsley finally, after a last sweeping gaze at the sky. "Let me know when the rest are back."

Lupin nodded. With a wave to the others, Kingsley walked away into the darkness toward the gate. Harry thought he heard the faintest pop as Kingsley Disapparated just beyond the Burrow's boundaries. Another small moment of silence fell between them, but only a moment's before Lupin spoke once more:

"We should go inside," he said, looking grim, his arm wrapped around Tonks' waist. "We'll listen for the others."

The rest nodded, slowly starting to meander back toward the Burrow's door. Harry gave one last look at the sky, then turned back toward the door, walking back with the group. He felt Hermione weave her arm through his in a gesture of comfort, felt Ron's somewhat pitying gaze on him, but he did not look at them, his mind internally raging.

Bill. Fleur. Mad-Eye. Mundungus. Abigail. Where were they? Why weren't they back yet? Harry swallowed the lump in his throat, ignoring the hot burning behind his eyes. It was his fault. He had consented, he had given them his hair, he had chosen to let them risk their lives for his sake, and now... now anything could have happened. What if they had been shot down? What if they were captured or hurt or- Harry barely dared to think it- dead? It would be all his _fault_. It was his fault if the Weasley's lost a son and their future daughter. It would be his fault if Mad-Eye and Mundungus didn't return. It would be his fault if Tonks never saw her little girl again, if Andromeda Tonks never saw her granddaughter again, if _he _never saw her again-

_No. Stop thinking like that. _Harry's mind practically screamed at him. _Don't even think about it at all. Stop._

Harry pulled out of his thoughts as the group crossed the Burrow's threshold and into the kitchen. Quietly, they all walked into the living room, where the others were gathered around George, lying unnaturally still and silent on the couch; Mrs. Weasley had managed to staunch the flow, however blood still stained his handsome face, so very, very unlike his firey hair. Mrs. Weasley and Fred sat beside the couch, Mrs. Weasley stroking her son's hair with trembling fingers. For the first time since Harry had known him, Fred seemed to be lost for words. He gaped silently at his twin's wound as if he could not believe what he was seeing. Mr. Weasley stood beside the crouched form of his wife, looking pale and gaunt, his face tense.

"How is he?" Harry asked as the small group settled against the wall, watching.

Mrs. Weasley looked around and said, "I can't make it grow back, not when it's been removed by Dark Magic. But it could've been so much worse... He's alive."

"Yeah," said Harry. "Thank God."

Perhaps roused by the sound of the small group's arrival, George stirred.

"How you feeling, Georgie?" said Fred as calmly as he could.

George's eyes remained closed; he took a small breath before answering.

"Saintlike," he murmured gently.

Fred blinked. "Come again?" he asked in an odd voice, watching his brother worriedly.

"Saintlike," repeated George, opening his eyes and looking up at his brother. "I'm holey." He grinned exhaustedly but humorously. He pointed at the place where his ear had been. "I'm holey, Fred, geddit?"

Fred grinned back at his brother.

"The whole wide world of ear-related humor," said Fred, "and you go for 'I'm holey'?" He chuckled. "That's pathetic."

"'Reckon I'm still better looking than you," said George good-naturedly. "Ah well," said George, grinning at his mother. "You'll be able to tell us apart now, anyway, Mum."

He looked around then, taking in the sight of everyone.

"Hi, Harry - you are Harry, right?"

"Yeah, I am," said Harry, moving closer to the sofa.

"Well, at least we got you back okay," said George. "Why aren't Bill and Abbie huddled round my sickbed?"

"They're not back yet, George," said Mrs. Weasley. George's grin faded.

"Well... well, surely you... you don't think-"

But the end of George's sentence was drowned by a suddenly-appearing Fleur, nearly leaping through the doorway, her hair windswept and messy and her face somewhat terrified. Before anyone could even process this, she spoke:

"Arthur, Lupin, it's Mad-Eye," she said hurriedly. "Bill's got him outside, but he needs help-"

Mr. Weasley and Lupin quickly ran from the living room and out of the kitchen door after Fleur. After a moment, they staggered back in, helping a grim-looking Bill carry a very beaten Mad-Eye through the door. They hurried him carefully into the living room, setting him down in a large cushioned chair. Hermione gasped as they sat him down; Harry clenched his fists.

Mad-Eye looked awful: Every inch of him must have been bruised or bloody. His regular eye was swolen and purple, while his magical eye was missing, leaving a dark hole where it had once been. Chunks of what was left of his scraggly hair had been torn away, leaving multiple balded spots. His clothes were ripped; his cloak was missing completely. His metallic leg was blackened and dented. His real leg seemed to be the only decently injured place on his whole body. His breathing was raspy and quick and he looked not only very tired, but very upset.

"Bill! Thank God, thank God -"

Mrs. Weasley ran forward, but the hug Bill bestowed upon her was perfunctory.

"Ginny, get him some water," Mr. Weasley told his daughter, who quickly rushed into the kitchen. He looked grimly at Mad-Eye. "Mad-Eye, what happened?" Mr. Weasley asked the dreadful-looking man. "Where's Abbie, Mad-Eye? Where's Mundungus? What-what..."

He trailed off, waiting. No one spoke as Mad-Eye collected himself gruffly; even the twins were, once more, silent.

"We were surrounded," Mad-Eye began, his voice dry. "Death Eaters everywhere, spells flying- it was a complete war-zone. I reckoned from the start You-Know-Who would expect the real Harry to be with the most skilled Auror. He knew he'd be in the most danger. That's why nearly the whole lot flew after us. Must've nearly died twenty times over."

He stopped for a moment as Ginny returned, handing him a large glass of water. He drank it all in one gulp, ignoring the water dribbling from his mouth as he quickly drank down the substance. He took a deep breath as he finished, wiping the water drops roughly from his chin.

"It happened just after we broke out of the circle," he went on, his voice suddenly sounding more furious. "The three of us were stuck close by at least ten of those bloody Eaters, all shooting spells at us over and over. Then out of nowhere, Voldemort- he can fly, the hellish arse- came straight for us. Dung panicked, I heard him scream, the greasy, buggering fool, and Black- she tried to stop him, but he Disapparated- left us stranded, the two of us. Voldemort kept trying to curse us, but we managed to avoid them. We went on like that for a while, dodging and fighting, and then one of them was screaming about the real one, and then Voldemort disappeared, just like that, gone."

"And then?" Tonks asked, her voice thick and slowly rising in pitch, expression desperate. "What happened? Did something happen to Abbie?"

"Let him finish, Tonks," Mrs. Weasley said, though she looked fearful herself.

"After that most of the Death Eaters Disapperated right after him, but some stayed, at least half a dozen still trying to shoot us down. We were almost to the safehouse, just nearly there when one of the gits finally got me- hit me with a spell, not sure what it was but it dented my good leg- and another rammed into me, knocked me straight off my broom. There was nothing I could do, I'd lost my wand and my broom. Sheer luck I reckon that Bill and Fleur saw me when they did, saved my life, but by the time they'd caught me, the Death Eaters, all of them, every one, were gone. And so was Black."

He scowled grimly, slumping back into the chair.

"Of course you couldn't have done anything," said Lupin gently.

They all stood looking at each other, helpless expressions on their faces. Harry could not quite comprehend it. Abigail, gone; missing, lost, maybe captured or dead or worse; it could not be... Abigail, so tough, so brave, so kind and willing and caring, so needed, the person _he_ needed-

Nobody seemed to know what to do. Tears were fast cascading down Tonks' face: Harry could only imagine what she was experiencing, thinking, feeling. Hagrid, standing stationary in the doorway, looked shocked and incomprehensive. Ron looked pale and Hermione and Ginny seemed close to tears. Lupin looked shaken and ready to vomit. The rest of the Weasleys had mixed emotions written all over their faces.

Harry could only wonder what his face might have looked like; the swirl of emotion inside of him was too much to comprehend-

_Pain, anger, sadness, more pain, frustration, anxiety, resentment, shame, denial, regret, grief, desperation, worry, guilt, rage, pain pain pain, fear fear fear_, so much of everything combined in the pit of his stomach, making him sick.

He felt weak; Everything seemed so unreal because_ she could not be gone_. Because this all had to be a dream. His eyes blurred, misting over, restricting his vision. His head hurt, he might've been ready to collapse. He felt for the wall, anything to grip on to to keep from falling. His voice was locked, unable to say anything. Harry felt as though something inside him was falling, falling through the earth, leaving him forever.

_No. No. No no no no no no no NO NO NO NO. NO._

He was shaking, his legs ready to collapse under his shaky weight, ready to give up because the world was ending and she wasn't coming back and everything was falling away and it was all his fault-

"No," Tonks said, breaking the silence. "No, this isn't it. No."

"Nymphadora-"

"No, Remus!" She said loudly, shaking her head, tears falling faster. "NO! We have to find her, we have to do something-"

"Nympha-"

"Don't 'Nymphadora' me!" She screamed at him. "She's my daughter, I won't leave her! I won't leave her!"

"What do you expect to do?" Lupin argued back, finally having his say.

"Anything!" Tonks shouted. "Anything we can't just leave her!"

"Tonks, please-"

"WE CAN'T JUST LEAVE HER!" Tonks shrieked. _"SHE COULD BE DEAD!"_

Suddenly, as if cued by her voice, a crack, louder than any thunder or lightning, rang deafeningly from outside, echoing through the doorframe and windowframes and celing and walls the living room. A scream, a thump, and silence.

A breath.

"Oh- oh my _god_," Tonks said, eyes wide, her tone filled with disbelief, and suddenly desperate. "Abbie! _ABBIE!_"

Everything next happened in a blur. Harry's mind seemed to numb on instinct; his blood pounded desperately, only wishing what he hoped was true. All Harry knew was he was running and everyone was behind him and there was the light of the kitchen then the dark of the outside and then he was sprinting faster and faster across the lawn because the person at the edge of the boundaries could only be one person and he couldn't run fast enough and all he knew was he needed to reach them because that was all he knew and he couldn't stand one more moment without them-

Someone screamed-

"No! Harry! Harry, stop! _Harry!_ _HARRY!_ Ron! Ron, _catch him_!"

Someone suddenly grabbed him, throwing their arms around him, bringing him to a sharp stop. He struggled, fighting against the arms restaining him, eyes locked on the coughing, straggling, ragged-looking girl at the edge of the yard, dressed in oversized clothes identical to his own, fighting to stand but failing as she fell back after only reaching her knees. The arms around him did not loosen and Harry continued to struggle. Harry vaguely registered Lupin running past him, coming to a stop a few feet before the girl. Harry fought harder, pushing to escape, but suddenly froze.

Lupin was raising his wand, pointing it directly at the girl, point-blank. She sat still on the grass, staring directly back at him, looking past the wand pointed into her face. The entirity of the garden was silent; Harry had no idea how many people were outside, watching this scene, feeling the tense atmosphere of the air around them.

"The last words," Lupin spoke deeply, breaking the silence, "Abigail Black's father ever spoke to me."

There was another moment of silence. It could not, Harry thought, have been any longer than a few seconds, but time still seemed to be in slow motion and everything was so unearthly quiet, and it seemed so much longer.

After about a thousand years, she sucked in a breath, staring him dead in the eyes, hers filled with something sad.

"You're a good man," she whispered. "You're a good man."

Lupin looked at her a moment longer and then, seemingly deliberately slow, his arm fell, bringing his wand away from her face. He reached out again- wandless this time- and helped her shakily onto her feet, her hands grasping his sleeves with white knuckles on quivering legs. He steadied her on her feet then released her. He looked back, staring at Harry and Ron, the latter's arms still restraining the former, and nodded confirmation, stepping aside. The arms around Harry vanished.

Suddenly, time sped up again as Harry raced once more down the lawn in a second, his adrenaline powering his every move, his desperation running through his veins, and then he was sweeping Abigail into his arms, pulling her to him tightly, as if she would vanish the moment he let go. Her head immediately entombed into his shoulder, her arms wound around his neck and her fingers knotted in the back of his shirt. His face fell into her hair, one arm tangled in the messy curls and the other snaked around her waist like iron, holding her there. She inhaled, her breath trembling a bit, and then fell limp into him, tenseness falling from her shoulders.

"God," she croaked hoarsly, her voice raspy and dry. "Oh my god- I thought- I thought- Christ- I was so scared, I was so scared-"

He shushed softly. "I know," he murmured, rocking slightly, soothingly. "I know."

"I almost- I almost_ died_. God. I- I thought- I thought I'd never- never see you again-"

She was crying then, her body quaking, tears spots soaking into his jacket sleeve. He squeezed her tighter, running his fingers through her hair. He buried his nose in the golden waterfall, inhaling the smell of chocolate and pine and strawberries. It had never been sweeter.

A minute passed, and then they pulled back slightly, her hands falling onto his chest, his arms still around her. He finally took her all in: Her ponytail was a frizzy mess, strands falling out over her tear-filled eyes. Scratches littered her face and hands, and her clothes were covered in red stains and black, burned spots, likely from spells that had come one inch too close. She was also coated in dirt and grass from her uneasy Apparating just minutes ago. Tears streamed from reddened eyes, running down her face, the drops on the left side turning red as they slid past a particularly nasty gash along her cheek. It made him want to retch. He swallowed instead.

He reached up, grasping her face, wiping her tears away with his thumbs, ignoring the blood that stuck to his finger as he gently cleaned her face.

"I thought you were dead," he said in a low voice, breaking on the last word.

She sniffed, shivering, and then, suddenly and straight-faced, "D- don't reckon you c- can get rid of me t-that easily."

Through every thing, through every hit and miss of the night, through every life-threatening experience, he hadn't quite expected this. He blinked. Relief suddenly shot through his body, and, under the complete knowledge it must have looked insane, he huffed something of a laugh. It spurred her into the same, giving him a tiny grin, her eyes warm on him.

Then her eyes shifted over his shoulder and he looked back, where Tonks was swiftly approaching them. He pulled back, gaining a small distance before Tonks reached them, enveloping Abigail in her own arms, squeezing her. Abigail lay her head on Tonks' shoulder, returning her gripping hug. Tonks whispered something, tears on her cheeks, rubbing the girl's back. Abigail murmured something back and Tonks chuckled a bit, then finally pulled back, cupping the girl's battered cheek affectionately in her hand.

Then Ron and Hermione were there, Tonks moving back to let the boy and girl through. Hermione wrapped her arms carefully around Abigail's middle, squeezing carefully for case of injury. Abigail wound hers about Hermione's shoulders, returning the sisterly gesture. Ron stepped forward when Hermione fell back, bending to awkwardly hug Abigail. It was short yet sweet, and when they pulled apart, she smiled up at him, reaching up to gently wipe a sheen of sweat off of his forehead.

Nearby, Harry noticed, Tonks looked up at the house, and he copied her, looking up at Lupin, who was watching them from the doorway. Something silent seemed to pass between he and Tonks, and she turned to face them.

"Come on then, let's get inside," she said. "Can't stay out here forever. Quickly now, quickly."

Harry hurried over to help Abigail as she tried, strickenly, as she had minutes before, to move. He suddenly saw the dark stain on Abigail's jeans and trousers and realizing the favouring of her leg that he had not noticed until then. With a tug of her wrist from him, Abigail swung her arm up around Harry's shoulders gratefully. grimacing as he began to pull her along toward the house. Ron hurried around to help, stumping and pulling her other arm around his shoulders, hooking his arm around her torso. Harry saw the end of Ginny's red hair flash through the kitchen doorway- to alert the others of this development, he concluded- and slowly, painstakingly they helped the girl up to the house, Tonks and Hermione alongside them, where Lupin stood in the door, an indecipherable look on his grizzly face.  
He stepped aside as they reached the house, letting them by, then, after a final scan of the back lawn, followed them into the living room.

There was a general feeling of relief as Harry and Ron helped Abigail limp into the room. Mrs. Weasley hurried forward, looking more electrified than Harry had ever seen her look that night.

"Oh Abbie, are you alright?" She asked, looking over the girl worriedly, hand fluttering about. "Here, here, come, come, let's sit you down, come on, over here, that's it, come now-"

She led the trio over to a chair, newly conjured by the looks of it, and Harry and Ron gently set Abigail in it; Harry strayed beside the armrests of the chair, and Tonks joined him as Ron moved a short distance away to stand with Hermione. Abigail let out a deep sigh and visibly relaxed, letting her injured leg hang limply.

Mr. Weasley hurried into the kitchen, returning moments later with his wife's wand, which he handed to Mrs. Weasley. With the stature of a nurse and mother, Mrs. Weasley bent down, grasped the bottom of Abigail's jeans, and gave her a sad look before pulling the fabric up to her knee.

Abigail whimpered and clutched the armrests of the chair, then spared a look at her leg. She groaned. Everyone else grimaced.

A long slash was apparent on her leg, stretching from her knee to her ankle in a bloody incisions. The skin around it lit red, darkly burned. Molly, frowning, gently touched the cut with her wand, indecipherable words on her breath. Abigail hissed and flinched, but kept her leg still. Everyone watched quietly as Molly moved her wand slowly upwards over the cut, the skin coming together and knitting softly behind it's movement.

Bill walked over to the sideboard as Molly worked, and pulling out a bottle of fire-whisky and some glasses.

"Here," he said, and with a wave of his wand, he sent fourteen full glasses soaring through the room to each of them, keeping the fifteenth himself. "We all need this tonight, I reckon." They nodded and drank.

The firewhisky seared Harry's throat. It seemed to burn feeling back into him, dispelling the slight numbness and sense of unreality still firing him with something that was like courage.

"What happened?" Lupin said to Abigail, already having drained his own glass in one. "After Mad-Eye fell."

The atmosphere changed at once. Everybody looked tense, watching Abigail, all wanting her to go on, it seemed to Harry, and slightly afraid of what they might hear.

"I suppose he's already told you most of the story," Abigail said, looking over at the battered one-eyed Auror. "Good to see you."

He grunted, a vague affirmation and reciprocation. She just looked relieved, taking a deep breath before turning back to the room and going on.

"After Mad-Eye fell, there were still half a dozen Death Eaters flying around at least, but by then the potion was starting to wear off and they knew for sure I wasn't the real Harry. Mad-Eye and Mundungus were both gone and the Death Eaters were still shooting at me. It was hell out there- clouds everywhere and spells flying. No one of us was around, no one I could see, and the Death Eaters were driving in closer- I did what I could. I stunned two off of their brooms before they realized I could fight, and then they were cursing like mad. The cut- one hit me with a Searing hex-"

"Did a bloody ugly job of it too," Fred muttered, throwing a dark look at the gash.

"Anyway, it threw me off, and then they were closer than ever, all shouting spells and laughing and cursing. It took all I had just to stay on my broom, I couldn't even fight back."

Tonks was steaming with rage, her hair turning a dangerous shade of dark red and her jaw locked as if her teeth were permenately stuck together.

"One hit my broom with Incendio and the tail lit on fire. I was only lucky enough to control it for a minute, but then it stopped working altogether- there's a burn on my back-"

Molly nodded her attention as she slowly continued her work on Abigail's leg.

"I fell completely out of the sky, I could hear the Death Eaters laughing, my broom was gone, no one was there, I knew I was going to die-"

Hermione's hands were over her mouth in fear, eyes shining; Ron looked pale. Harry clenched his fist in obvious worry

"-and then I just stopped, in mid-air. Like something had caught me."

"The barriers," Lupin said, realization coloring his tone, looking suddenly, immensly relieved. "You hit the barriers at one of the safe houses."  
"Yeah," she breathed. "The Prewitts. Ignatius, Molly's brother- he says hello, by the way- he heard me hit the barriers and came and got me down. The Death Eaters had gone away after figuring out they couldn't get through the enchantments. The Portkey had already left so he showed me a weak spot in the enchantments for Apparating- I was shaky though... kind of explains the crash-landing. And... I ended up here."  
"It was sheer luck you weren't killed tonight," Mr. Weasley said, rubbing his temples wearily. Abigail just nodded.  
"It's good to see you safe," Mrs. Weasley said, finishing her work on Abigail's leg. She stood then. "I'll take I look at that burn later." The girl nodded again. For the slightest moment, there was a silence that seemed to last eons.  
"So Mundungus disappeared?" Lupin said then, almost casually. The tenseness in the room flew to a new level.

"I know what you're thinking," said Bill, a bit quickly, "and I wondered that too, on the way back here, because they seemed to be expecting us, didn't they? But Mundungus can't have betrayed us. They didn't know there would be seven Harrys, that confused them the moment we appeared, and in case you've forgotten, it was Mundungus who suggested that little bit of skullduggery. Why wouldn't he have told them the essential point? I think Dung panicked, it's as simple as that. He didn't want to come in the first place, but Mad-Eye made him, and You-Know-Who went straight for them. It was enough to make anyone panic."

"You-Know-Who acted exactly as Mad-Eye expected him to," said Tonks. "Mad-Eye said he'd expect the real Harry to be with the toughest, most skilled Aurors. He chased Mad-Eye first, and when Mundungus gave them away he switched to Kingsley... "

"Yes, and that's all very good," said Fleur, a bit tersely, "but still it does not explain how they knew we were moving Harry tonight, does it? Somebody must have been careless. Somebody let the date slip to an outsider. It's the only explanation for them knowing the date but not the whole plan."

She looked around at them all, lines etched on her beautiful face, almost silently asking any of them to contradict her. Nobody did. The only sound to break the silence was that of Hagrid hiccupping from behind his handkerchief. Harry glanced at Hagrid, who had just risked his own life to save Harry's- Hagrid, whom he loved, whom he trusted, who had once been tricked into giving Voldemort crucial information in exchange for a dragon's egg...

"No," Harry said aloud, and they all looked at him, surprised: The firewhisky seemed to have amplified his voice. "I mean... if somebody made a mistake," Harry went on, "and let something slip, I know they didn't mean to do it. It's not their fault," he repeated, again a little louder than he would usually have spoken. "We've got to trust each other. I trust all of you, I don't think anyone in this room would ever sell me to Voldemort."

More silence followed his words. They were all looking at him; Harry felt a little hot again, and drank some more firewhisky for something to do. As he drank, he thought suddenly, quietly of Mad-Eye. Mad-Eye had always been scathing about Dumbledore's willingness to trust people.

"Well said, Harry," said Fred unexpectedly.

"Year, 'ear, 'ear," said George, with half a glance at Fred, the corner of whose mouth twitched.

Lupin was wearing an odd expression as he looked at Harry. It was close to pitying.

"You think I'm a fool?" demanded Harry.

"No, I think you're like James," said Lupin, "who would have regarded it as the height of dishonor to mistrust his friends."

Harry knew what Lupin was getting at: that his father had been betrayed by his friend Peter Pettigrew. He felt irrationally angry. He wanted to argue, but Lupin had turned away from him, set down his glass upon a side table, and addressed Bill, "There's work to do. I can ask Kingsley whether-"

"No," said Bill at once, "I'll do it, I'll come."

"Where are you going?" said Tonks and Fleur together.

"Mundungus," said Lupin. "He needs to be found, whether he was the mole or not, and as quickly as possible."

"Can't it-" began Mrs. Weasley with an appealing look at Bill.

"Wait?" said Bill, "Not unless you'd rather he actually be the mole and Harry be found and slaughtered?"

Nobody spoke. Lupin and Bill said good bye and left.

The rest of them now dropped into chairs, all except for Harry, who remained standing. The suddenness and completeness of death was with them like a presence.

"I've got to go too," said Harry.

Twelve pairs of startled eyes looked at him.

"Don't be silly, Harry," said Mrs. Weasley, "What are you talking about?"

"I can't stay here."

He rubbed his forehead; it was prickling again, he had not hurt like this for more than a year.

"You're all in danger while I'm here. I don't want-"

"But don't be so silly!" said Mrs. Weasley. "The whole point of tonight was to get you here safely, and thank goodness it worked. And Fleur's agreed to get married here rather than in France, we've arranged everything so that we can all stay together and look after you-"

She did not understand; she was making him feel worse, not better.

"If Voldemort finds out I'm here-"

"But why should he?" asked Mrs. Weasley.

"There are a dozen places you might be now, Harry," said Mr. Weasley. "He's got no way of knowing which safe house you're in."

"It's not me I'm worried for!" said Harry.

"We know that," said Mr. Weasley quietly, "but it would make our efforts tonight seem rather pointless if you left."

"Yer not goin' anywhere," growled Hagrid. "Blimey, Harry, after all we wen' through ter get you here?"

"Yeah, what about my bleeding ear?" said George, hoisting himself up on his cushions.

"I know that-"

"None of us want-"

"I KNOW!" Harry bellowed.

He felt beleaguered and blackmailed: Did they think he did not know what they had done for him, didn't they understand that it was for precisely that reason that he wanted to go now, before they had to suffer any more on his behalf? There was a long and awkward silence in which his scar continued to prickle and throb, and which was broken at last by Mrs. Weasley.

"Where's Hedwig, Harry?" she said coaxingly. "We can put her up with Pidwidgeon and give her something to eat."

His insides clenched like a fist. He could not tell her the truth. He drank the last of his firewhisky to avoid answering. He felt a gentle hand thread into his, squeezing, but he did not turn to look into Abigail's knowing gaze he could feel on himself.

"Wait till it gets out yeh did it again, Harry," said Hagrid. "Escaped him, fought him off when he was right on top of yeh!"

"It wasn't me," said Harry flatly. "It was my wand. My wand acted of its own accord."

After a few moments, Hermione said gently, "But that's impossible, Harry. You mean that you did magic without meaning to; you reacted instinctively."

"No," said Harry. "The bike was falling, I couldn't have told you where Voldemort was, but my wand spun in my hand and found him and shot a spell at him, and it wasn't even a spell I recognized. I've never made gold flames appear before."

"Often," said Mr. Weasley, "when you're in a pressured situation you can produce magic you never dreamed of. Small children often find, before they're trained-"

"It wasn't like that," said Harry through gritted teeth. His scar was burning. He felt angry and frustrated; he hated the idea that they were all imagining him to have power to match Voldemort's.

No one said anything. He knew that they did not believe him. Now that he came to think of it, he had never heard of a wand performing magic on its own before.

His scar seared with pain, it was all he could do not to moan aloud. Muttering about fresh air, he set down his glass, pulled his hand out of Abigail's, and left the room.

As he crossed the yard, the great skeletal thestral looked up, rustled its enormous batlike wings, then resumed its grazing. Harry stopped at the gate into the garden, staring out at its overgrown plants, rubbing his pounding forehead and thinking of Dumbledore.

Dumbledore would have believed him, he knew it. Dumbledore would have known how and why Harry's wand had acted independently, because Dumbledore always had the answers; he had known about wands, had explained to Harry the strange connection that existed between his wand and Voldemort's...

But Dumbledore, like Sirius, like his parents, like his poor owl, all were gone where Harry could never talk to them again. He felt a burning in his throat that had nothing to do with firewhisky...

And then, out of nowhere, the pain in his scar peaked. As he clutched his forehead and closed his eyes, a voice screamed inside his head.

"You told me the problem would be solved by using another's wand!"

And into his mind burst the vision of an emaciated old man lying in rags upon a stone floor, screaming, a horrible drawn-out scream, a scream of unendurable agony...

"No! No! I beg you, I beg you..."

"You lied to Lord Voldemort, Ollivander!"

"I did not... I swear I did not..."

"You sought to help Potter, to help him escape me!"

"I swear I did not... I believed a different wand would work..."

"Explain, then, what happened. Lucius's wand is destroyed!"

"I cannot understand... The connection... exists only... between your two wands..."

"Lies!"

"Please... I beg you..."

And Harry saw the white hand raise its wand and felt Voldemort's surge of vicious anger, saw the frail old main on the floor writhe in agony-

"Harry?"

It was over as quickly as it had come: Harry stood shaking in the darkness, clutching the gate into the garden, his heart racing, his scar still tingling. It was several moments before he realized that Abigail, Ron, and Hermione were at his side.

"Harry, come back in the house," Abigail whispered, touching his arm. He stayed silent, though he severly urged to make her return to the house; she still was paler than usual.

"You aren't still thinking of leaving?" Hermione asked worriedly.

"Yeah, you've got to stay, mate," said Ron, thumping Harry on the back.

"Are you all right?" Hermione asked, close enough now to look into Harry's face. "You look awful!"

"Well," said Harry shakily, "I probably look better than Ollivander..."

When he had finished telling them what he had seen, Abigail looked frightened, Ron looked appalled, and Hermione downright terrified.

"But it was supposed to have stopped! Your scar- it wasn't supposed to do this anymore! You mustn't let that connection open up again- Dumbledore wanted you to close your mind!"

When he did not reply, she gripped his arm.

"Harry, he's taking over the Ministry and the newspapers and half the Wizarding world! Don't let him inside your head too!"

Ugh. Alright. Sigh. Here we go.  
I'M SORRY O.O SO SO SO SO SO SO SO FREAKING SORRY.  
I know I didn't get the chapter up on time, I know I was at least a flipping MONTH late, I know, I know, I'm an awful lying twit, yadda yadda yadda- but WAIT! I CAN EXPLAIN.  
I've had SO MUCH TO DO LATELY 8| No exaggerations.  
Schoolwork has been really piled up because I've been sick lately, I've been caught up with color guard and winterguard is about to start (which is twice as time-consuming and excruciating), sleep has started to evade me more and more, my family troubles are mounting, and just recently my best friend broke off all ties with me, tore up my heart, and basically left it to die.  
My life's been kind of Hell.  
And honestly, part of this chapter just gave me so much CRAP :P There was one part I just absolutely DESPISED writing, I had the worst block for it. I still don't really like that part (secret- not going to tell you what part :P) but at least the rest was alright and at least I actually finally, FINALLY FINALLLLLYYYYY got it done and posted.  
Again, I'm very sorry. Don't mob me or anything. I would lose sorely.  
Anyway, I'll... try better... next time... right... o_o  
*awkward pausing*  
Yeah...  
Next Update: 11/24/12 (if life permits :P)


	4. Chapter 4

How Three Became Four

**BUM BUM BUM! :) Here we are readers, at the third and final book of the How Three Became Four series! I can't believe we've finally made it! I hope you're all excited! After the actionated, romanticised, wild adventures of Harry's sixth year, we now come to what would be his seventh, if not, per say, he was going on quite the interesting adventure ;) There will be even more action, excitement, and a lot more romance! We all love our new little addition to Harry's life! :) Like the first and second books, the story will consist of a mushed versiony-thingy of the seventh Harry Potter book and the seventh Harry Potter movie. I hope that you enjoy our "home-stretch story", and I hope you keep reviewing for me :) Ready? Set? Action.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or anything included or endorsed by Warner Brothers or J.K. Rowling :) I think that about covers it.**

4) The Ghoul in Pajamas

The terseness of Mundungus' disappearance hung over the house in the days that followed; Harry kept vigorously hoping that he would be dragged in one day by the other Order members- who passed in and out to relay news day after day, but still nothing about Mundungus- and the truth of his supposed accused betrayal may be revealed. Harry felt that nothing but action would assuage swirled, mixed emotions that he ought to set out on his mission to find and destroy Horcruxes as soon as possible.

"Well, you can't do anything about the"- Ron mouthed the word Horcruxes- "till you're seventeen. You've still got the Trace on you. And we can plan here as well as anywhere, can't we? Or," he dropped his voice to a whisper, "d'you reckon you already know where the You-Know-Whats are?"

"No," Harry admitted.

"I think the girls have been doing a bit of research," said Ron. "Hermione said they were saving it for when you got here."

They were sitting at the breakfast table; Mr. Weasley and Bill had just left for work. Mrs. Weasley had gone upstairs to wake Abigail, Hermione, and Ginny, while Fleur had drifted off to take a bath.

"The Trace'll break on the thirty-first," said Harry. "That means I only need to stay here four days. Then I can-"

"Five days," Ron corrected him firmly. "We've got to stay for the wedding. They'll kill us if we miss it."

Harry understood "they" to mean Fleur and Mrs. Weasley.

"It's one extra day," said Ron, when Harry looked mutinous.

"Don't they realize how important-?"

"'Course they don't," said Ron. "They haven't got a clue. And now you mention it, I wanted to talk to you about that."

Ron glanced toward the door into the hall to check that Mrs. Weasley was not returning yet, then leaned in closer to Harry.

"Mum's been trying to get it out of us, Abbie and Hermione and me. What we're off to do. She'll try you next, so brace yourself. Dad and Lupin've both asked as well, but when we said Dumbledore told you not to tell anyone except us, they dropped it. Not Mum, though. She's determined."

Ron's prediction came true within hours. Shortly before lunch, Mrs. Weasley detached Harry from the others by asking him to help identify a lone man's sock that she thought might have come out of his rucksack. Once she had him cornered in the tiny scullery off the kitchen, she started.

"Abbie, Ron, and Hermione seem to think that the four of you are dropping out of Hogwarts," she began in a light, casual tone.

"Oh," said Harry. "Well, yeah. We are."

The mangle turned of its own accord in a corner, wringing out what looked like one of Mr. Weasley's vests.

"May I ask why you are abandoning your education?" said Mrs. Weasley.

"Well, Dumbledore left me... stuff to do," mumbled Harry. "Abbie, Ron, and Hermione know about it, and they want to come too."

"What sort of 'stuff'?"

"I'm sorry, I can't- "

"Well, frankly, I think Arthur and I have a right to know, and I'm sure Tonks and Mr. and Mrs. Granger would agree!" said Mrs. Weasley. Harry had been afraid of the "concerned parent" attack. He forced himself to look directly into her eyes, acutely noticing as he did so that they were precisely the same shade of brown as Ginny's, wide and doeful and much to innocent yet powerful to hide from. This did not help.

"Dumbledore didn't want anyone else to know, Mrs. Weasley. I'm sorry. Abbie and Ron and Hermione don't have to come, it's their choice-"

"I don't see that you have to go either!" she snapped, dropping all pretense now. "You're barely of age, any of you! It's utter nonsense, if Dumbledore needed work doing, he had the whole Order at his command! Harry, you must have misunderstood him. Probably he was telling you something he wanted done, and you took it to mean that he wanted you-"

"I didn't misunderstand," said Harry flatly. "It's got to be me."

He handed her back the single sock he was supposed to be identifying, which was patterned with golden bulrushes.

"And that's not mine. I don't support Puddlemere United."

"Oh, of course not," said Mrs. Weasley with a sudden and rather unnerving return to her casual tone. "I should have realized. Well, Harry, while we've still got you here, you won't mind helping with the preparations for Bill and Fleur's wedding, will you? There's still so much to do."

"No- I- of course not," said Harry, disconcerted by this sudden change of subject.

"Sweet of you," she replied, and she smiled as she left the scullery.

From that moment on, Mrs. Weasley kept Harry, Abigail, Ron, and Hermione so busy with preparations for the wedding that they hardly had any time to think. The kindest explanation of this behavior would have been that Mrs. Weasley wanted to distract them all from thoughts of the terrors of their recent journey. After two days of nonstop cutlery cleaning, of color-matching favors, ribbons, and flowers, of de-gnoming the garden and helping Mrs. Weasley cook vast batches of canapés, however, Harry started to suspect her of a different motive. All the jobs she handed out seemed to keep him, Abigail, Ron, and Hermione away from one another; he had not had a chance to speak to any of them alone since the first night, when he had told them about Voldemort torturing Ollivander.

"I think Mum thinks that if she can stop the three of you getting together and planning, she'll be able to delay you leaving," Ginny told Harry in an undertone, as they laid the table for dinner on the third night of his stay.

"And then what does she think's going to happen?" Harry muttered. "Someone else might kill off Voldemort while she's holding us here making vol-au-vents?"

He had spoken without thinking, and saw Ginny's face whiten.

"So it's true?" she said. "That's what you're trying to do?"

"I- not- I was joking," said Harry evasively. Ginny stared, looking shocked, but bit her lip and said nothing else to him.

Both of them suddenly jumped as the door opened, and Mr. Weasley, Kingsley, and Bill walked in. They were often joined by other Order members for dinner now, because the Burrow had replaced number twelve, Grimmauld Place as the headquarters. Mr. Weasley had explained that after the death of Dumbledore, their Secret-Keeper, each of the people to whom Dumbledore had confided Grimmauld Place's location had become a Secret-Keeper in turn.

"And as there are around twenty of us, that greatly dilutes the power of the Fidelius Charm. Twenty times as many opportunities for the Death Eaters to get the secret out of somebody. We can't expect it to hold much longer."

"But surely Snape will have told the Death Eaters the address by now?" asked Harry.

"Well, Mad-Eye set up a couple of curses against Snape in case he turns up there again. We hope they'll be strong enough both to keep him out and to bind his tongue if he tries to talk about the place, but we can't be sure. It would have been insane to keep using the place as headquarters now that its protection has become so shaky."

The kitchen was so crowded that evening it was difficult to maneuver knives and forks. Harry found himself crammed beside Abigail, who had been uneveringly quiet for the last few days when he had seen her at all; he wished with a passion he could know what unspoken thoughts were floating around in her head. He was trying so hard to avoid brushing her arm- where part of the burn on her back had been, which Mrs. Weasley had been able to reduce to a less painful yet still quite uncomfortable lingering soreness- he could barely cut his chicken.

"No news about Mundungus?" Harry asked Bill.

"Nothing," replied Bill.

"The Daily Prophet hasn't said a word about what happened that night either, which I have no doubts they have knowledge of," said Bill. "But that doesn't mean much. It's keeping everything quiet these days."

"And they still haven't called a hearing about all the underage magic I used escaping the Death Eaters?" Harry called across the table to Mr. Weasley, who shook his head.

"Because they know I had no choice or because they don't want me to tell the world Voldemort attacked me?"

"The latter, I think. Scrimgeour doesn't want to admit that You-Know-Who is as powerful as he is, nor that Azkaban's seen a mass breakout."

"Yeah, why tell the public the truth?" said Harry, clenching his knife so tightly that the faint scars on the back of his right hand stood out, white against his skin: _I must not tell lies_.

"Isn't anyone at the Ministry prepared to stand up to him?" asked Ron angrily.

"Of course, Ron, but people are terrified," Mr. Weasley replied, "terrified that they will be next to disappear, their children the next to be attacked! There are nasty rumors going around; I for one don't believe the Muggle Studies professor at Hogwarts resigned. She hasn't been seen for weeks now. Meanwhile Scrimgeour remains shut up in his office all day; I just hope he's working on a plan."

There was a pause in which Mrs. Weasley magicked the empty plates onto the work surface and served apple tart.

"We must decide how you will be disguised, Harry," said Fleur, once everyone had pudding. "For the wedding," she added, when he looked confused. "Of course, none of our guests are Death Eaters, but we cannot guarantee that they will not let something slip after they have had champagne."

From this, Harry gathered that she had some suspiscion toward Hagrid, who never could stay quite sober enough during a party.

"I think that's a bit unreasonable, Fleur," Abigail suddenly spoke up, for the first time that night. Everyone quieted to listen. "We have protective charm over protective charm, dozens of Order members who can stand guard at a moment's notice, and, hopefully, most guests who know how to hold their own. I think there's a general safety in keeping Harry as is."

"But Abbie, you have to see Fleur's reasoning," Mrs. Weasley said, a bit too offhandedly but still with worry in her tone. "We never know what might happen-"

"I think she has some of her own, Molly," Lupin spoke up, swallowing a piece of chicken, his eyes calculating. "Everything Abbie's said is true. I think, while procautions are obviously and irrevocably necessary, I think that we may be able to leave Harry in his quite normal, un-transfigured state."

"Well..." Mrs. Weasley bit her lip, thinking for a moment, then sighted. "I... I suppose that would be alright," she said, finding no immediate reason as to why, behind so much protection, Harry would need to be changed. Fleur looked a bit stumped, but said nothing, returning to her meal.

"And for other matters..." Mrs. Weasley spoke, pulling out a piece of paper from her robe pocket at the top of the table where she sat, placing spectacles on the end of her nose, and scanning an immense list of jobs that she had scribbled on a very long piece of parchment. "Now, Ron, have you cleaned out your room yet?"

"Why?" exclaimed Ron, slamming his spoon down and glaring at his mother. "Why does my room have to be cleaned out? Harry and I are fine with it the way it is!"

"We are holding your brother's wedding here in a few days' time, young man-"

"And are they getting married in my bedroom?" asked Ron furiously. "No! So why in the name of Merlin's saggy left-"

"Don't talk to your mother like that," said Mr. Weasley firmly. "And do as you're told."

Ron scowled at both his parents, then picked up his spoon and attacked the last few mouthfuls of his apple tart.

"I can help, some of it's my mess." Harry told Ron, but Mrs. Weasley cut across him.

"No, Harry, dear, I'd much rather you helped Arthur muck out the chickens, and Hermione, I'd be ever so grateful if you'd change the sheets for Monsieur and Madame Delacour; you know they're arriving at eleven tomorrow morning. Abigail, if you would help me with the desserts, Tonks has told me you're quite the cook..."

But as it turned out, there was very little to do for the chickens.

"There's no need to, er, mention it to Molly," Mr. Weasley told Harry, blocking his access to the coop, "but, er, Hagrid recovered and brought me most of what was left of Sirius's bike and, er, I'm hiding- that's to say, keeping- it in here. Fantastic stuff: There's an exhaust gaskin, as I believe it's called, the most magnificent battery, and it'll be a great opportunity to find out how brakes work. I'm going to try and put it all back together again when Molly's not- I mean, when I've got time."

When they returned to the house, Mrs. Weasley was nowhere to be seen, so Harry slipped upstairs to Ron's attic bedroom.

"I'm doing it, I'm doing-! Oh, it's you," said Ron in relief, as Harry entered the room. Ron lay back down on the bed, which he had evidently just vacated. The room was just as messy as it had been all week; the only chance was that Abigail and Hermione were now sitting in the far corner, Hermione's fluffy ginger cat, Crookshanks, at their feet, Hermione sorting books, some of which Harry recognized as his own, into two enormous piles, while Abigail held a small piece of parchment and a quill, reclining on a pillow set against the wall to keep her sore back from further irritation.

"Hi, Harry," Abigail said, as he sat down on his camp bed.

"How did you manage to get away?" Harry asked them.

"I dropped a cake in the kitchen," Abigail said, not sounding as if it were accidental at all (which Harry doubted anyway), "and Mrs. Weasley sent me to change the sheets with Hermione. Looked right upset about it as well."

"However," said Hermione, "she forgot that she asked Abbie and me to change the sheets yesterday."

She threw _Numerology and Grammatica _onto one pile and _The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts _onto the other. Abigail wrote something quickly onto the parchment.

"We were just talking about Mundungus," Ron told Harry. "I reckon he was really the mole."

"Why do you reckon?" asked Harry, raising his eyebrows curiously.

"Think about it," said Ron. "This is Mundungus we're talking about. The bloke's a sniffling, blubblering, two-faced, bloody coward. If he'd been threatened by You-Know-Who, I almost guarantee he would've sold us out to save his own arse."

"He was part of the Order though," said Hermione, now weighing _Quidditch Teams of Britain and Ireland _in her hand. "Maybe, deep down, he really had _some _good in him-"

Abigail snorted, a quite odd thing that Harry was sure he had never seen her do, much less to Hermione, who was practically her sister in ways.

"I'm sorry Hermione, but I've known Mundungus Fletcher all my life," Abigail said, "and as much as I want to believe he could have found some sort of self-sacrifice buried in that dirty heart of his, I highly doubt it. He's always looked out for himself; he's his own number one. We have to be realistic."

Ron nodded, agreeing, punching his pillow into a more comfortable shape. Hermione pursed her lips, but did not argue.

For the first time, Harry imagined Mundungus Fletcher, with big innocent eyes and a giant heart, refusing to reveal Harry's location and mission to Voldemort with crying passion. It was the strangest and most unrealistic thing he thought he had ever imagined, and felt a stab of revulsion mixed with a bizarre desire to laugh.

"Maybe the Death Eaters got ahold of him and finished the job since You-Know-Who didn't get Harry," said Ron wisely. "Then they probably tidied up after themselves, that's why no one's found him."

"Yeah," said Harry. "Like Barty Crouch, turned into a bone and buried in Hagrid's front garden. They probably transfigured Mundungus and stuffed him-"

_"Don't!" _squealed Hermione. Startled, Harry looked over just in time to see her burst into tears over her copy of _Spellman's Syllabary_.

"Oh no," said Harry, struggling to get up from the old camp bed. "Hermione, I wasn't trying to upset-"

But with a great creaking of rusty bedsprings, Ron bounded off the bed and got there first. One arm around Hermione, he fished in his jeans pocket and withdrew a revolting-looking handkerchief that he had used to clean out the oven earlier. Hastily pulling out his wand, he pointed it at the rag and said,_ "Tergeo."_

The wand siphoned off most of the grease. Looking rather pleased with himself, Ron handed the slightly smoking handkerchief to Hermione. Abigail raised her eyebrow, sharing a look with Harry; something unspoken seemed to pass between them that Harry couldn't quite describe.

"Oh... thanks, Ron... I'm sorry..." She blew her nose and hiccupped.

"Yeah, I know, it's alight," said Ron, giving her a squeeze. "But, you know, what do you think Mad-Eye would say to us if he was here right now?"

"'C-constant vigilance,'" said Hermione, mopping her eyes.

"That's right," said Ron, nodding. "He'd tell us to learn from what happened to him. And what I've learned was never to trust that cowardly little squit, Mundungus, whether he was the mole or not or dead or alive right now."

Hermione gave a shaky laugh and leaned forward to pick up two more books. A second later, Ron had snatched his arm back from around her shoulders; she had dropped _The Monster Book of Monsters _on his foot. The book had broken free from its restraining belt and snapped viciously at Ron's ankle.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" Hermione cried as Harry wrenched the book from Ron's leg and retied it shit.

"What are you doing with all those books anyway?" Ron asked, limping back to his bed.

"Just trying to decide which ones to take with us," said Hermione, "When we're looking for the Horcruxes."

"Oh, of course," said Ron, clapping a hand to his forehead. "I forgot we'll be hunting down Voldemort in a mobile library."

"Ha ha," said Hermione, looking down at _Spellman's Syllabary_. "I wonder... will we need to translate runes? It's possible..."

"I think we'd better take it, to be safe," said Abigail, writing on the parchment. Hermione nodded her assent and dropped the syllabary onto the larger of the two piles and picked up _Hogwarts, A History_.

"Listen," said Harry.

He had sat up straight. The three looked at him with similar mixtures of resignation and defiance.

"I know you said after Dumbledore's funeral that you wanted to come with me," Harry began.

"Here he goes," Ron said to the girls, rolling his eyes.

"As we knew he would," Hermione sighed, turning back to the books. "You know, I think I will take _Hogwarts, A History_. Even if we're not going back there, I don't think I'd feel right if I didn't have it with-"

"Listen!" said Harry again.

"No, Harry, you listen," said Abigail, finishing the new entry on the parchment and looking up into his eyes, her jades filled with seriousness. "We're coming with you. That was decided months ago- years, really, even for me."

"But-"

"Shut up," Ron advised him.

"-are you sure you've thought this through?" Harry persisted.

"Let's see," said Hermione, slamming _Travels with Trolls _onto the discarded pile with a rather fierce look. "I've been packing for days, so we're ready to leave at a moment's notice, which for your information has included doing some pretty difficult magic, not to mention smuggling Mad-Eye's whole stock of Polyjuice Potion right under Ron's mum's nose."

"I've also modified my parents' memories so that they're convinced they're really called Wendell and Monica Wilkins, and that their life's ambition is to move to Australia, which they have now done. That's to make it more difficult for Voldemort to track them down and interrogate them about me- or you, because, unfortunately, I've told them quite a bit about you."

"Assuming I survive our hunt for the Horcruxes, I'll find Mum and Dad and lift the enchantment. If I don't- well, I think I've cast a good enough charm to keep them safe and happy. Wendell and Monica Wilkins don't know that they've got a daughter, you see."

Hermione's eyes were swimming with tears again. Abigail reached over, gently touching Hermione's cheek. She seemed to calm a bit at the gesture. Ron frowned at Harry as though reproaching him for lack of tact. Harry could not think of anything to say, not least because it was highly unusual for Ron to be teaching anyone else tact.

"I- Hermione, I'm sorry- I didn't-"

"Didn't realize that Abbie and Ron and I know perfectly well what might happen if we come with you? Well, we do. Ron, show Harry what you've done."

"Nah, he's just eaten," said Ron.

"Go on, he needs to know!"

"Oh, all right. Harry, come here."

Ron slid off of his bed and stomped over to the door.

"C'mon."

"Why?" Harry asked, following Ron out of the room onto the tiny landing.

_"Descendo,"_ muttered Ron, pointing his wand at the low ceiling. A hatch opened right over their heads and a ladder slid down to their feet. A horrible, half-sucking, half-moaning sound came out of the square hole, along with an unpleasant smell like open drains.

"That's your ghoul, isn't it?" asked Harry, who had never actually met the creature that sometimes disrupted the nightly silence.

"Yeah, it is," said Ron, climbing the ladder. "Come and have a look at him."

Harry followed Ron up the few short steps into the tiny attic space. His head and shoulders were in the room before he caught sight of the creature curled up a few feet from him, fast asleep in the gloom with its large mouth wide open.

"But it... it looks... do ghouls normally wear pajamas?"

"No," said Ron. "Nor have they usually got red hair or that number of pustules."

Harry contemplated the thing, slightly revolted. It was human in shape and size, and was wearing what, now that Harry's eyes became used to the darkness, was clearly an old pair of Ron's pajamas. He was also sure that ghouls were generally rather slimy and bald, rather than distinctly hairy and covered in angry purple blisters.

"He's me, see?" said Ron.

"No," said Harry. "I don't."

"I'll explain it back in my room, the smell's getting to me," said Ron. They climbed back down the ladder, which Ron returned to the ceiling, and rejoined Abigail and Hermione, who were still sorting books and writing notes.

"Once we've left, the ghoul's going to come and live down here in my room," said Ron. "I think he's really looking forward to it- well, it's hard to tell, because all he can do is moan and drool- but he nods a lot when you mention it. Anyway, he's going to be me with spattergroit. Good, eh?"

Harry merely looked his confusion.

"It is!" said Ron, clearly frustrated that Harry had not grasped the brilliance of the plan. "Look, when we three don't turn up at Hogwarts again, everyone's going to think Abbie and Hermione and I must be with you, right? Which means the Death Eaters will go straight for our families to see if they've got information on where you are."

"But hopefully it'll look like I've gone away with Mum and Dad; a lot of Muggle-borns are talking about going into hiding at the moment," said Hermione.

"And with Tonks in the Order... we've taken procautions," said Abigail. "She's been, well, 'dropping hints', per say, that I've been hidden away, protected by the Order. She's not happy, but she's accepted that I have to go with you." Abigail smiled warmly at the thought of her mother figure. "She knows me. We're both pretty stubborn when it comes down to it, I suppose."

"We can't hide my whole family, it'll look too fishy and they can't all leave their jobs," said Ron. "So we're going to put out the story that I'm seriously ill with spattergroit, which is why I can't go back to school. If anyone comes calling to investigate, Mum or Dad can show them the ghoul in my bed, covered in pustules. Spattergroit's really contagious, so they're not going to want to go near him. It won't matter that he can't say anything, either, because apparently you can't once the fungus has spread to your uvula."

"And your mum and dad are in on this plan?" asked Harry.

"Dad is. He helped Fred and George transform the ghoul. Mum... well, you've seen what she's like. She won't accept we're going till we're gone."

There was silence in the room, broken only by gentle thuds as Hermione continued to throw books onto one pile or the other and the scritch-scratching of Abigail's quill on the parchment. Ron sat watching them, and Harry looked between them, unable to say anything. The measures they had taken to protect their families made him realize, more than anything else could have done, that they really were going to come with him and that they knew exactly how dangerous that would be. He wanted to tell them what that meant to him, but he simply could not find words important enough.

Through the silence came the muffled sounds of Mrs. Weasley shouting from four floors below.

"Ginny's probably left a speck of dust on a poxy napkin ring," said Ron. "I dunno why the Delacours have got to come two days before the wedding."

"Fleur's sister's a bridesmaid, she needs to be here for the rehearsal, and she's too young to come on her own," said Hermione, as she pored indecisively over _Break with a Banshee._

"Well, guests aren't going to help Mum's stress levels," said Ron.

"What we really need to decide," said Hermione, tossing _Defensive Magical Theory _into the bin without a second glance and picking up _An Appraisal of Magical Education in Europe_ as Abigail wrote away, "is where we're going after we leave here. I know you said you wanted to go to Godric's Hollow first, Harry, and I understand why, but... well... shouldn't we make the Horcruxes our priority?"

"If we knew where any of the Horcruxes were, I'd agree with you," said Harry, who did not believe that Hermione really understood his desire to return to Godric's Hollow. His parents' graves were only part of the attraction: He had a strong, though inexplicable, feeling that the place held answers for him. Perhaps it was simply because it was there that he had survived Voldemort's Killing Curse; now that he was facing the challenge of repeating the feat, Harry was drawn to the place where it had happened, wanting to understand.

"Hermione may have a small point," said Abigail, looking a bit conflicted about her answer however. "There's a possibility that Voldemort's keeping a watch on Godric's Hollow. He might expect us to go back and visit our parents' graves once we're free to go wherever we like."

"'Ours?'" Harry asked.

Abigail's face sunk a bit, a small pinkish tinge running through it. "Mine are buried there too," she said, a bit quieter than she had been talking before. "And... and Voldemort probably knows that we want to go there once we can." She fell silent after her short explanation, looking a bit uncomfortable.

This had not occurred to Harry. While he struggled to find a counterargument, Ron spoke up, evidently following his own train of thought.

"This R.A.B. person," he said. "You know, the one who stole the real locket?"

They all nodded.

"He said in his note he was going to destroy it, didn't he?"

Harry dragged his rucksack toward him and pulled out the fake Horcrux in which R.A.B.'s note was still folded.

_"'I have stolen the real Horcrux and intend to destroy it as soon as I can.'" _Harry read out.

"Well, what if he did finish it off?" said Ron.

"Or she," interposed Hermione.

"Whichever," said Ron. "It'd be one less for us to do!"

"Yes, but we're still going to have to try and trace the real locket, aren't we?" said Abigail, speaking up again, "to find out whether or not it's destroyed."

"And once we get hold of it, how do you destroy a Horcrux?" asked Ron.

"Well," said Hermione, "I've been researching that."

"How?" asked Harry. "I didn't think there were any books on Horcruxes in the library?"

"There weren't," said Hermione, who had turned pink. "Dumbledore removed them all, but he- he didn't destroy them."

Ron sat up straight, wide-eyed.

"How in the name of Merlin's pants have you managed to get your hands on those Horcrux books?"

"It- it wasn't stealing!" said Hermione, looking from Abigail to Harry to Ron with a kind of desperation. "They were still library books, even if Dumbledore had taken them off the shelves. Anyway, if he really didn't want anyone to get at them, I'm sure he would have made it much harder to-"

"Get to the point!" said Ron.

"Well... it was easy," said Hermione in a small voice. "I just did a Summoning Charm. You know- Accio. And- they zoomed out of Dumbledore's study window right into the girls' dormitory."

"But when did you do this?" Harry asked, regarding Hermione with a mixture of admiration and incredulity.

"Just after his- Dumbledore's- funeral," said Hermione in an even smaller voice, doing everything in her power to keep her eyes away from Abigail's, which were wide as dinner plates. "Right after we agreed we'd leave school and go and look for the Horcruxes. When I went back upstairs to get my things it- it just occurred to me that the more we knew about them, the better it would be... and I was alone in there... so I tried... and it worked. They flew straight in through the open window and I- I packed them."

She swallowed and then said imploringly, "I can't believe Dumbledore would have been angry, it's not as though we're going to use the information to make a Horcrux, is it?"

"Can you hear us complaining?" said Ron. "Where are these books anyway?"

Hermione rummaged for a moment and then extracted from the pile a large volume, bound in faded black leather. She looked a little nauseated and held it as gingerly as if it were something recently dead.

"This is the one that gives explicit instructions on how to make a Horcrux. _Secrets of the Darkest Art_- it's a horrible book, really awful, full of evil magic. I wonder when Dumbledore removed it from the library... if he didn't do it until he was headmaster, I bet Voldemort got all the instruction he needed from here."

"Why did he have to ask Slughorn how to make a Horcrux, then, if he'd already read that?" asked Ron.

"He only approached Slughorn to find out what would happen if you split your soul into seven," said Harry. "Dumbledore was sure Riddle already knew how to make a Horcrux by the time he asked Slughorn about them. I think you're right, Hermione, that could easily have been where he got the information."

"And the more I've read about them," said Hermione, "the more horrible they seem, and the less I can believe that he actually made six. It warns in this book how unstable you make the rest of your soul by ripping it, and that's just by making one Horcrux!"

Harry remembered what Dumbledore had said about Voldemort moving beyond "usual evil."

"Isn't there any way of putting yourself back together?" Ron asked.

"Yes," said Hermione with a hollow smile, "but it would be excruciatingly painful."

"Why? How do you do it?" asked Harry.

"Remorse," said Hermione. "You've got to really feel what you've done. There's a footnote. Apparently the pain of it can destroy you. I can't see Voldemort attempting it somehow, can you?"

"No," said Ron, before Harry could answer. "So does it say how to destroy Horcruxes in that book?"

"Yes," said Hermione, now turning the fragile pages as if examining rotting entrails, "because it warns Dark wizards how strong they have to make the enchantments on them. From all that I've read, what Harry did to Riddle's diary was one of the few really foolproof ways of destroying a Horcrux."

"What, stabbing it with a basilisk fang?" asked Harry.

"Oh well, lucky we've got such a large supply of basilisk fangs, then," said Ron. "I was wondering what we were going to do with them."

"It doesn't have to be a basilisk fang," said Hermione patiently. "It has to be something so destructive that the Horcrux can't repair itself. Basilisk venom only has one antidote, and it's incredibly rare-"

"-phoenix tears," said Harry, nodding.

"Exactly," said Hermione. "Our problem is that there are very few substances as destructive as basilisk venom, and they're all dangerous to carry around with you. That's a problem we're going to have to solve, though, because ripping, smashing, or crushing a Horcrux won't do the trick. You've got to put it beyond magical repair."

"But even if we wreck the thing it lives in," said Ron, "why can't the bit of soul in it just go and live in something else?"

"Because a Horcrux is the complete opposite of a human being."

Seeing that Harry, Abigail, and Ron looked thoroughly confused, Hermione hurried on. "Look, if I picked up a sword right now, Ron, and ran you through with it, I wouldn't damage your soul at all."

"Which would be a real comfort to me, I'm sure," said Ron. Harry laughed. Abigail smiled at them.

"It should be, actually! But my point is that whatever happens to your body, your soul will survive, untouched," said Hermione. "But it's the other way round with a Horcrux. The fragment of soul inside it depends on its container, its enchanted body, for survival. It can't exist without it."

"That diary sort of died when I stabbed it," said Harry, remembering ink pouring like blood from the punctured pages, and the screams of the piece of Voldemort's soul as it vanished.

"And once the diary was properly destroyed, the bit of soul trapped in it could no longer exist," Abigail said in realization. "Ginny tried to get rid of the diary before you did, flushing it away, but obviously it came back good as new."

"Hang on," said Ron, frowning. "The bit of soul in that diary was possessing Ginny, wasn't it? How does that work, then?"

"While the magical container is still intact, the bit of soul inside it can flit in and out of someone if they get too close to the object. I don't mean holding it for too long, it's nothing to do with touching it," she added before Ron could speak. "I mean close emotionally."

"Ginny poured her heart out into that diary, she made herself incredibly vulnerable," said Abigail, finishing Hermione's thought. "You're in trouble if you get too fond of or dependent on the Horcrux."

"Precisely," said Hermione.

"I wonder how Dumbledore destroyed the ring?" said Harry. "Why didn't I ask him? I never really..."

His voice trailed away: He was thinking of all the things he should have asked Dumbledore, and of how, since the headmaster had died, it seemed to Harry that he had wasted so many opportunities when Dumbledore had been alive, to find out more... to find out everything...

The silence was shattered as the bedroom door flew open with a wall-shaking crash. Hermione shrieked and dropped _Secrets of the Darkest Art_; Abigail jumped three inches off the floor in suprise, knocking her pillow out from behind her; Crookshanks streaked under the bed, hissing indignantly; Ron lept off the bed, skidded on a discarded Chocolate Frog wrapper, and smacked his head on the opposite wall; and Harry instinctively dived for his wand before realizing that he was looking up at Mrs. Weasley, whose hair was disheveled and whose face was contorted with rage.

"I'm so sorry to break up this cozy little gathering," she said, her voice trembling. "I'm sure you all need your rest... but there are wedding presents stacked in my room that need sorting out and I was under the impression that you had agreed to help."

"Oh yes," said Hermione, looking terrified as she leapt to her feet, sending books flying in every direction. "we will... we're sorry..."

Abigail, leaving her parchment and quill lying with the pile of books, jumped up to go with her. With anguished looks at Harry and Ron, the girls hurried out of the room after Mrs. Weasley.

"It's like being a house-elf," complained Ron in an undertone, still massaging his head as he and Harry followed. "Except without the job satisfaction. The sooner this wedding's over, the happier, I'll be."

"Yeah," said Harry, "then we'll have nothing to do except find Horcruxes... It'll be like a holiday, won't it?"

Ron started to laugh, but at the sight of the enormous pile of wedding presents waiting for them in Mrs. Weasley's room, stopped quite abruptly.

The Delacours arrived the following morning at eleven o' clock. Harry, Abigail, Ron, Hermione and Ginny were feeling quite resentful toward Fleur's family by this time; and it was with ill grace that Ron stomped back upstairs to put on matching socks, and Harry, will Abigail's help, attempted to flatten his hair. Once they had all been deemed smart enough, they trooped out into the sunny backyard to await the visitors.

Harry had never seen the place looking so tidy. The rusty cauldrons and old Wellington boots that usually littered the steps by the back door were gone, replaced by two new Flutterby bushes standing either side of the door in large pots; though there was no breeze, the leaves waved lazily, giving an attractive rippling effect. The chickens had been shut away, the yard had been swept, and the nearby garden had been pruned, plucked, and generally spruced up, although Harry, who liked it in its overgrown state, thought that it looked rather forlorn without its usual contingent of capering gnomes.

He had lost track of how many security enchantments had been placed upon the Burrow by both the Order and the Ministry; all he knew was that it was no longer possible for anybody to travel by magic directly into the place. Mr. Weasley had therefore gone to meet the Delacours on top of a nearby hill, where they were to arrive by Portkey. The first sound of their approach was an unusually high-pitched laugh, which turned out to be coming from Mr. Weasley, who appeared at the gate moments later, laden with luggage and leading a beautiful blonde woman in long, leaf green robes, who could be Fleur's mother.

"Mama!" cried Fleur, rushing forward to embrace her. "Papa!"

Monsieur Delacour was nowhere near as attractive as his wife; he was a head shorter and extremely plumb, with a little, pointed black beard. However, he looked good-natured. Bouncing towards Mrs. Weasley on high-heeled boots, he kissed her twice on each cheek, leaving her flustered.

"You 'ave been so much trouble," he said in a deep voice. "Fleur tells us you 'ave been working very 'ard."

"Oh, it's been nothing, nothing!" trilled Mrs. Weasley. "No trouble at all!"

Ron relieved his feelings by aiming a kick at a gnome who was peering out from behind one of the new Flutterby bushes.

"Dear lady!" said Monsieur Delacour, still holding Mrs. Weasley's hand between his own two plump ones and beaming. "We are most honored at the approaching union of our two families! Let me present my wife, Apolline."

Madame Delacour glided forward and stooped to kiss Mrs. Weasley too.

"Enchanté," she said. "Your 'usband 'as been telling us such amusing stories!"

Mr. Weasley gave a maniacal laugh; Mrs. Weasley threw him a look, upon which he became immediately silent and assumed an expression appropriate to the sickbed of a close friend.

"And, of course, you 'ave met my leetle daughter, Gabrielle!" said Monsieur Delacour. Gabrielle was Fleur in miniature; eleven years old, with waist-length hair of pure, silvery blonde, she gave Mrs. Weasley a dazzling smile and hugged her, then threw Harry a glowing look, batting her eyelashes. Abigail eyed the girl oddly, both a smile and a scowl tugging at her lips.

"Well, come in, do!" said Mrs. Weasley brightly, and she ushered the Delacours into the house, with many "No, please!"s and "After you!'s and "Not at all!'s.

The Delacours, it soon transpired, were helpful, pleasant guests. They were pleased with everything and keen to assist with the preparations for the wedding. Monsieur Delacour pronounced everything from the seating plan to the bridesmaids' shoes "Charmant!" Madame Delacour was most accomplished at household spells and had the oven properly cleaned in a trice; Gabrielle followed her elder sister around, trying to assist in any way she could and jabbering away in rapid French.

On the downside, the Burrow was not built to accommodate so many people. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were now sleeping in the sitting room, having shouted down Monsieur and Madame Delacour's protests and insisted they take their bedroom. Gabrielle was sleeping with Fleur in Percy's old room, and Bill would be sharing with Charlie, his best man, once Charlie arrived from Romania. Opportunities to make plans together became virtually nonexistent, and it was in desperation that Harry, Abigail, Ron and Hermione took to volunteering to feed the chickens just to escape the overcrowded house.

"But she still won't leave us alone!" snarled Ron, and their second attempt at a meeting in the yard was foiled by the appearance of Mrs. Weasley carrying a large basket of laundry in her arms.

"Oh, good, you've fed the chickens," she called as she approached them. "We'd better shut them away again before the men arrive tomorrow... to put up the tent for the wedding," she explained, pausing to lean against the henhouse. She looked exhausted. "Millamant's Magic Marquees... they're very good. Bill's escorting them... You'd better stay inside while they're here, Harry. I must say it does complicate organizing a wedding, having all these security spells around the place."

"I'm sorry," said Harry humbly.

"Oh, don't be silly, dear!" said Mrs. Weasley at once. "I didn't mean- well, your safety's much more important! Actually, I've been wanting to ask you how you want to celebrate your birthday, Harry. Seventeen, after all, it's an important day..."

"I don't want a fuss," said Harry quickly, envisaging the additional strain this would put on them all. "Really, Mrs. Weasley, just a normal dinner would be fine... It's the day before the wedding..."

"Oh, well, if you're sure, dear. I'll invite Remus and Tonks, shall I? And how about Hagrid?"

"That'd be great," said Harry. "But please, don't go to loads of trouble."

"Not at all, not at all... It's no trouble..."

She looked at him, a long, searching look, then smiled a little sadly, straightened up, and walked away. Harry watched as she waved her wand near the washing line, and the damp clothes rose into the air to hang themselves up, and suddenly he felt a great wave of remorse for the inconvenience and the pain he was giving her.

**I. AM. ON. TIME. OUO ERMIGERSH!**

**I had some nice free time and decided to do this early :) I actually finished this the same day I uploaded the really really late chapter! I'm SOOOOOO proud of myself!**

**I hope you all are having a nice Thanksgiving break :) I hope you all have marvelous times!**

**Don't forget to leave a review! The Nargles love it!**

**Next Update: 12/1/12 OR 12/8/12**


	5. Chapter 5

How Three Became Four

**BUM BUM BUM! :) Here we are readers, at the third and final book of the How Three Became Four series! I can't believe we've finally made it! I hope you're all excited! After the actionated, romanticised, wild adventures of Harry's sixth year, we now come to what would be his seventh, if not, per say, he was going on quite the interesting adventure ;) There will be even more action, excitement, and a lot more romance! We all love our new little addition to Harry's life! :) Like the first and second books, the story will consist of a mushed versiony-thingy of the seventh Harry Potter book and the seventh Harry Potter movie. I hope that you enjoy our "home-stretch story", and I hope you keep reviewing for me :) Ready? Set? Action.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or anything included or endorsed by Warner Brothers or J.K. Rowling :) I think that about covers it.**

5) The Last Will and Testament of Albus Dumbledore

He was walking along a mountain road in the cool blue light of dawn. Far below, swathed in mist, was the shadow of a small town. Was the man he sought down there, the man he needed so badly he could think of little else, the man who held the answer, the answer to his problem...?

"Oi, wake up."

Harry opened his eyes. He was lying again on the camp bed in Ron's dingy attic room. The sun had not yet risen and the room was still shadowy. Pigwidgeon was asleep with his head under his tiny wing. The scar on Harry's forehead was prickling.

"You were muttering in your sleep."

"Was I?"

"Yeah. 'Gregorovitch.' You kept saying 'Gregorovitch.'"

Harry was not wearing his glasses; Ron's face appeared slightly blurred.

"Who's Gregorovitch?"

"I dunno, do I? You were the one saying it."

Harry rubbed his forehead, thinking. He had a vague idea he had heard the name before, but he could not think where.

"I think Voldemort's looking for him."

"Poor bloke," said Ron fervently.

Harry sat up, still rubbing his scar, now wide awake. He tried to remember exactly what he had seen in the dream, but all that came back was a mountainous horizon and the outline of the little village cradled in a deep valley.

"I think he's abroad."

"Who, Gregorovitch?"

"Voldemort. I think he's somewhere abroad, looking for Gregorovitch. It didn't look like anywhere in Britain."

"You reckon you were seeing into his mind again?"

Ron sounded worried.

"Do me a favor and don't tell Hermione," said Harry. "Although how she expects me to stop seeing stuff in my sleep..."

He gazed up at little Pigwidgeon's cage, thinking...Why was the name "Gregorovitch" familiar?

"I think," he said slowly, "he's got something to do with Quidditch. There's some connection, but I can't- I can't think what it is."

"Quidditch?" said Ron. "Sure you're not thinking of Gorgovitch?"

"Who?"

"Dragomir Gorgovitch, Chaser, transferred to the Chudley Cannons for a record fee two years ago. Record holder for most Quaffle drops in a season."

"No," said Harry. "I'm definitely not thinking of Gorgovitch."

"I try not to either," said Ron. "Well, happy birthday anyway."

"Wow- that's right, I forgot! I'm seventeen!"

Harry seized the wand lying beside his camp bed, pointed it at the cluttered desk where he had left his glasses, and said, _"Accio Glasses!" _Although they were only around a foot away, there was something immensely satisfying about seeing them zoom toward him, at least until they poked him in the eye.

"Slick," snorted Ron.

Reveling in the removal of his Trace, Harry sent Ron's possessions flying around the room, causing Pigwidgeon to wake up and flutter excitedly around his cage. Harry also tried tying the laces of his trainers by magic (the resultant knot took several minutes to untie by hand) and, purely for the pleasure of it, turned the orange robes on Ron's Chudley Cannons posters bright blue.

"I'd do your fly by hand, though," Ron advised Harry, sniggering when Harry immediately checked it. "Here's your present. Unwrap it up here, it's not for my mother's eyes."

"A book?" said Harry as he took the rectangular parcel. "Bit of a departure from tradition, isn't it?"

"This isn't your average book," said Ron. "It'd pure gold: _Twelve Fail-Safe Ways to Charm Witches._ Explains everything you need to know about girls. If only I'd had this last year I'd have known exactly how to get rid of Lavender and I would've known how to get going with... Well, Fred and George gave me a copy, and I've learned a lot. You'd be surprised, it's not all about wandwork, either."

When they arrived in the kitchen they found a pile of presents waiting on the table. Bill and Monsieur Delacour were finishing their breakfasts, while Mrs. Weasley stood chatting to them over the frying pan.

"Arthur told me to wish you a happy seventeenth, Harry," said Mrs. Weasley, beaming at him. "He had to leave early for work, but he'll be back for dinner. That's our present on top."

Harry sat down, took the square parcel she had indicated, and unwrapped it. Inside was a watch very like the one Mr. and Mrs. Weasley had given Ron for his seventeenth; it was gold, with stars circling around the race instead of hands.

"It's traditional to give a wizard a watch when he comes of age," said Mrs. Weasley, watching him anxiously from beside the cooker. "I'm afraid that one isn't new like Ron's, it was actually my brother Fabian's and he wasn't terribly careful with his possessions, it's a bit dented on the back, but-"

The rest of her speech was lost; Harry had got up and hugged her. He tried to put a lot of unsaid things into the hug and perhaps she understood them, because she patted his cheek clumsily when he released her, then waved her wand in a slightly random way, causing half a pack of bacon to flop out of the frying pan onto the floor.

"Happy birthday, Harry!" said Hermione, hurrying into the kitchen and adding her own present to the top of the pile. "It's not much, but I hope you like it. What did you get him?" she added to Ron, who seemed not to hear her.

"Come on, then, open Hermione's!" said Ron.

She had bought him a new Sneakoscope. The other packages contained an enchanted razor from Bill and Fleur ("Ah yes, zis will give you ze smoothest shave you will ever 'ave," Monsieur Delacour assured him, "but you must tell it clearly what you want...ozzerwise you might find you 'ave a leetle less hair zan you would like..."), chocolates from the Delacours, a Puddlemere United poster from Ginny (Harry grinned and Ron snorted when he saw Oliver Wood on the front), and an enormous box of the latest Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes merchandise from Fred and George.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione did not linger at the table, as the arrival of Madame Delacour, Fleur, and Gabrielle made the kitchen uncomfortably crowded.

"I'll pack these for you," Hermione said brightly, taking Harry's presents out of his arms as the three of them headed back upstairs. "I'm nearly done, I'm just waiting for the rest of your underpants to come out of the wash, Ron-"

Ron's splutter was interrupted by the opening of a door on the first-floor landing.

"Harry, will you come in here a moment?"

It was Ginny. Ron came to an abrupt halt, looking confused and questioning and a bit startled, but Hermione, who seemed to know the girl's ideal and was perfectly comfortable with this odd development, took him by the elbow and tugged him on up the stairs. Questioningly, Harry slid into Ginny's room.

He had never been inside it before. It was small, but bright. There was a large poster of the Wizarding band the Weird Sisters on one wall, and a picture of Gwenog Jones, Captain of the all-witch Quidditch team the Holyhead Harpies, on the other. A desk stood facing the open window, which looked out over the orchard where he and Ginny had once played a two-a-side Quidditch with Ron and Hermione while Abigail looked on, and which now housed a large, pearly white marquee. The golden flag on top was level with Ginny's window.

Abigail stood at the window, her back to him, watching out of Ginny's window toward the rising eastern sun of the warm fall day. The sun reflected off her hair and skin with a gentle golden hue, highlighting the white of her skin and the own gold in her hair. It blew gently in the wind shifting through the window, the curls lifting tenderly before falling back against her. Harry barely noticed Ginny slip out of the room, closing the door with the tiniest click, as she turned to face him, her eyes meeting his.

He had missed her dearly, there were no doubts.

She held out her hand invitingly, and he used that to finally break from his sore stupor to step toward her. She watched until he had stopped in front of her, having to tilt her head from her five-foot-four position to his nearly six-foot one. He took her small hand, threading his fingers through hers.

"Hi," she said to him, smiling. "Happy seventeenth."

"Thank you," he said sincerely.

She was looking at him steadily; he stared right back at her, however it almost, interestingly, difficult; it was like gazing into a brilliant light.

"I couldn't think what to get you," she said.

"You didn't have to get me anything."

She disregarded this.

"I didn't know what would be useful. Nothing too big, because we wouldn't be able to take it with us."

He chanced a glance at her. She was steady in her resolve; that was one of the many wonderful things about Abigail: for everything she had been through, she was rarely weepy.

She stepped closer to him.

"So then I thought, I'd like you to have something... well, something... special... something unexpected, really. It's- it's so awfully _awfully_- well, it could be good or completely- just- _awful_ too, but I just don't... I don't know... I just supposed maybe something... encouraging, I guess, something I reckoned might... bring some happiness if that makes any real sense..."

He blinked, looking oddly at her. She looked right nervous and a bit irritable now, stumbling over her words and her meanings. She breathed something between a sigh and a huff.

"I reckon you have no idea what I'm even talking about... well... I- I... oh, bloody hell," she muttered. "I was ready for this. This wasn't how I wanted this to go, not at all."

Harry was quite confused by now. Abigail's cheeks were beginning to turn a light shade of pink.

She sighed again. "Here- let me just... well... I'll just give it to you... let you think of it what you will... I think I'll do better once I've thought of something worthwhile to say..."

She pulled on his hand, leading him over to Ginny's desk by the window, where a Snitch-papered box tied with a rich red ribbon lay ready. She gave it over to him, and, still very confused, he tugged off the ribbon and pulled the top off of the box.

Inside was something black and, as he touched it, made of fabric. He lifted it out of the box, holding it at arm's length. It was a sleek black suit jacket, crisp and unstained. There were no tears or rips, and it both looked and smelled freshly washed.

"It's for the wedding," Abigail said before he could speak. She gave him a small smile. "Go on, try it on."

With another lost blink her way, Harry pulled the jacket on, shrugging into it. It was cool and silky on the inside, and very comfortable.

"It looks so good," she smiled, reaching out to tug on the sleeves and smooth the creases, adjusting it to her liking.

"It's great," Harry said, shifting comfortably in it.

"It's your dad's," she whispered.

The entire room went silent. Harry's mouth ran dry as he stilled. Innumerable emotions ran through him in an instant, most he couldn't name. His torso seemed to itch and tingle at the same time under the jacket. Abigail did not look at him, her hands moving rhythmically over the wrinkles in the fabric on his shoulders.

"My- my dad's?" He choked out. "This is... this is really my dad's?"

"It really is," she said in a low voice. "Remus- he sent it to me for you. Thought it was a great idea. And look-"

She turned him toward the corner of the room, where a long mirror was situated against the wall.

"- it fits perfectly."

He could see her watching his face in the mirror, but he was focused on himself, watching his reflection. He blinked; she hadn't been lying. The jacket was the perfect fit over his torso. Emotions indescribable still coarsed through him; a lump had formed in his throat, so thick he didn't know if he could speak yet. She seemed to understand.

"You're speechless," she said, looking up at him; he could only nod in reply. "That's good. I had... had really, really hoped you would like it. I hope you do."

"It's fantastic," he finally said, turning to face her. "Really fantastic."

"That's wonderful," she said, reaching out once more to tug on the jacket. "I was, well, a bit unsure about the fit, but I guess that was for nothing."

Her smile suddenly lessened then, not completely sliding from her face, but shrinking in eagerness. Her eyes focused on his collar, which she was fixing again. She was in all seriousness.

"I'd hoped," she murmured, "that... well... it's a bit silly... but I'd hoped that this would be, just, really really special. And I'd hoped that, maybe, in case anything were to... to happen to m- me..." She stuttered then. "I suppose, you... you'd still have something to... to think about me by when you c-came back-"

"What?" Harry said. "No. Don't- don't think like that."

"Ha-"

"No," he interrupted, causing her to finally look up at him, her eyes meaningful, the smile fallen away. "Nothing's going to happen to you. Nor Hermione and Ron. I won't let it. You're not going anywhere. Not while I'm still breathing."

She gave a tiny smile. "And I guess there's the silver lining I've been looking for," she whispered.  
Then she was kissing him as she had never kissed him before, and Harry was kissing her back, and it was blissful oblivion better than firewhisky; she was the only real thing in the world, Abigail, the feel of her, one hand at her back and one in her long, sweet-smelling hair, her arms locked around his neck and her lips moving perfectly against his-

A knock echoed loudly on the door behind them and they both jumped, falling apart.

"Are you two done in there?" Ron called loudly through the door.

"Ron!" Hermione's and Ginny's voices echoed after his chidingly.

Harry wanted no more at the moment than to, irrationally it seemed, scream at them and slam the door in their faces, but it felt as though an uncomfortable draft had entered the room when Ron had knocked, and their shining moment had popped like a soap bubble.

He looked at Abigail, wanting to say something else, though he hardly knew what with how awkward the situation had suddenly become. Her face had flushed scarlet, quite similar to the shade of Weasley hair.

"Uh- unm," she stuttered, clearing her throat. "Umm... well... there's a-a tie with the... with the jacket- to match my dress and all... so..." She cleared her throat again. "I'll-um- I mean... I'll just... see you later. I'll see you later."

Without another single word, she moved soundlessly, and quite quickly, to the door and out, sliding past a red-eared Ron and irritable looking Hermione and Ginny, the two of who followed Abigail as she disappeared down the stairs. Ron shifted awkwardly in place, however he looked somewhat stern; Harry barely achnoledged that of him, standing in silence.

"Oi, mate," Ron spoke first, finally, a hard edge to his tone."You need to be careful. I mean it; watch it."

"What?" Harry asked confusedly, a bit stumped at Ron's strange statement. "What are you talking about?"

"She's really scared about all of this," said Ron. "She's worried- bloody hell, she's terrified- and it's all about you because she thinks that you think that you're going to die out there, and frankly, mate, I don't think you've given her any reason to think different."

"She knows the risks," said Harry. "She knows what could happen, and so do I, and both of us know that I probably won't-"

"Stop that," said Ron coldly. "Stop acting like you're just going to drop dead any minute. You're not just... _destined_-" he made finger quotes at this, "-to die."

"And if I am?" Harry demanded.

"You're not," Ron said stiffly. "You can still beat this, and you need to start acting like it. She's really cut up over everything."

"You think I'm not too?" asked Harry.

"Yeah, but you go snogging her now like you just did and she's just going to get her hopes up again, and then you'll just put her down again-"

"She's not an idiot, she knows the risks, any of us could kick the bucket anytime. And- and she's can't yet think- she can't expect us to- to end up married, or-"

As he said it, a vivid picture formed in Harry's mind of Abigail in a white dress, marrying a tall, faceless, and unpleasant stranger, and white hot anger rushed through him.

"That's stupid," Ron said. "Don't even say that. Of course she does. Is that wrong? Don't tell me it is. We- Hermione and me- we see the way you look at each other."

Harry did not answer. In one spiraling moment it seemed to hit him: Abigail's future was free and unencumbered, whereas his...he could see nothing but Voldemort ahead.

But, somehow, he couldn't see his future without her either. It was selfish and stupid, but he couldn't think of going on without her, of going into this without her with him. He conflicted that with her own life- _she should be able to go on, have a life_- and he felt even more selfish when he still wanted her in the picture of his own future.

Ron sighed. "She's... she's like my sister, mate. And I don't want anything to happen to her- none of us do- but she's already accepted it. She's going with you every step of the way, we all are, mind, and she's willing to die for you. You've got to be better than this. You've got to give her a reason."

"Like?"

"Blimey, mate!" Ron said roughly, jerking his hand through his hair in agitation. "Stop acting like a dead bloke walking! Act like you're going to make it through this because you will! Give her a reason to fight for you!"

Harry said nothing, staring at Ron, a hard expression on his face and in his eyes. The day was cloudless, but he felt as though the sun had gone in.

"Okay, mate?" Ron asked in a quieter tone, sounding a bit breathless.

Harry hesitated, watching his best friend, suddenly wondering where all this... _tact _seemed to have come from.

"Okay?" Ron asked again, gentle yet firm.

"Fine," Harry said finally, not unkindly. "Fine. Okay."

The serious mood seemed to somewhat dissolve after that. After his- Harry had to admit, impressive- lecture, Ron looked half content, half sheepish; he rocked backward and forward on his feet for a moment, then said, "Right then, well, that's...yeah. Good."

Abigail did not seek another one-to-one meeting with Harry for the rest of the day, nor by any look or gesture did she show that they had shared more than a polite conversation and giving of gifts in Ginny's room. Nevertheless, Charlie's arrival came as a relief to Harry. It provided a distraction, watching Mrs. Weasley force Charlie into a chair, raise her wand threateningly, and announce that he was about to get a proper haircut.

As Harry's birthday dinner would have stretched the Burrow's kitchen to breaking point even before the arrival of Charlie, Lupin, Tonks, and Hagrid, several tables were placed end to end in the garden. Fred and George bewitched a number of purple lanterns all emblazoned with a large number 17, to hang in midair over the guests. Thanks to Mrs. Weasley's ministrations, George's wound was neat and clean, but Harry was not yet used to the dark hole in the side of his head, despite the twins' many jokes about it.

Hermione made purple and gold streamers erupt from the end of her wand and drape themselves artistically over the trees and bushes.

"Nice," said Ron, as with one final flourish of her wand, Hermione turned the leaves on the crabapple tree to gold. "You've really got an eye for that sort of thing."

"Thank you, Ron!" said Hermione, looking both pleased and a little confused. Harry turned away, smiling to himself. He had a funny notion that he would find a chapter on compliments when he found time to peruse his copy of _Twelve Fail-Safe Ways to Charm Witches_; he caught Abigail's eye and grinned at her, remembering his promise to Ron, and she grinned back, looking exceptionally happy to see him smiling.

"Out of the way, out of the way!" sang Mrs. Weasley, coming through the gate with what appeared to be a giant, beach-ball-sized Snitch floating in front of her. Seconds later Harry realized that it was his birthday cake, which Mrs. Weasley was suspending with her wand, rather than risk carrying it over the uneven ground. When the cake had finally landed in the middle of the table, Harry said, "That looks amazing, Mrs. Weasley."

"Oh, it's nothing, dear," she said fondly. Over her shoulder, Ron gave Harry the thumbs-up and mouthed, _Good one_.

By seven o'clock all the guests had arrived, led into the house by Fred and George, who had waited for them at the end of the lane. Hagrid had honored the occasion by wearing his best, and horrible, hairy brown suit. Although Lupin smiled as he shook Harry's hand, Harry thought he looked rather unhappy. It was all very odd; Tonks, beside him, looked simply radiant.

"Happy birthday, Harry," she said, hugging him tightly.

"Seventeen, eh!" said Hagrid as he accepted a bucket-sized glass of wine from Fred. "Six years ter the day since we met, Harry, d'yeh remember it?"

"Vaguely," said Harry, grinning up at him. "Didn't you smash down the front door, give Dudley a pig's tail, and tell me I was a wizard?"

"I forge' the details," Hagrid chortled. "All righ', Ron, Hermione, Abbie?"

"We're fine," said Hermione. "How are you?"

"Ar, not bad. Bin busy, we got some newborn unicorns. I'll show yeh when yeh get back-" Harry avoided The other three's gazes as Hagrid rummaged in his pocket. "Here. Harry- couldn't think what ter get teh, but then I remembered this." He pulled out a small, slightly furry drawstring pouch with a long string, evidently intended to be worn around the neck. "Mokeskin. Hide anythin' in there an' no one but the owner can get it out. They're rare, them."

"Hagrid, thanks!"

"'S'nothin'," said Hagrid with a wave of a dustbin-lid-sized hand. "An' there's Charlie! Always liked him- hey! Charlie!"

Charlie approached, running his hand slightly ruefully over his new, brutally short haircut. He was shorter than Ron, thickset, with a number of burns and scratches up his muscled arms.

"Hi, Hagrid, how's it going?"

"Bin meanin' ter write fer ages. How's Norbert doin'?"

"Norbert?" Charlie laughed. "The Norwegian Ridgeback? We call her Norberta now."

"Wha- Norbert's a girl?"

"Oh yeah," said Charlie.

"How can you tell?" asked Hermione.

"They're a lot more vicious," said Charlie. He looked over his shoulder and dropped his voice. "Wish Dad would hurry up and get here. Mum's getting edgy."

They all looked over at Mrs. Weasley. She was trying to talk to Madame Delacour while glancing repeatedly at the gate.

"I think we'd better start without Arthur," she called to the garden at large after a moment or two. "He must have been held up at- oh!"

They all saw it at the same time: a streak of light that came flying across the yard and onto the table, where it resolved itself into a bright silver weasel, which stood on its hind legs and spoke with Mr. Weasley's voice.

"Minister of Magic coming with me."

The Patronus dissolved into thin air, leaving Fleur's family peering in astonishment at the place where it had vanished.

"We shouldn't be here," said Lupin at once. "Harry- I'm sorry- I'll explain some other time-"

He seized Tonks's wrist and pulled her away; they reached the fence, climbed over it, and vanished from sight. Mrs. Weasley looked bewildered.

"The Minister- but why-? I don't understand-"

But there was no time to discuss the matter; a second later, Mr. Weasley had appeared out of thin air at the gate, accompanied by Rufus Scrimgeour, instantly recognizable by his mane of grizzled hair.

The two newcomers marched across the yard toward the garden and the lantern-lit table, where everybody sat in silence, watching them draw closer. As Scrimgeour came within range of the lantern light. Harry saw that he looked much older than the last time that had met, scraggy and grim.

"Sorry to intrude," said Scrimgeour, as he limped to a halt before the table. "Especially as I can see that I am gate-crashing a party."

His eyes lingered for a moment on the giant Snitch cake.

"Many happy returns."

"Thanks," said Harry.

"I require a private word with you," Scrimgeour went on. "Also with Miss Abigail Black, Mr. Ronald Weasley, and Miss Hermione Granger."

"Us?" said Ron, sounding surprised. "Why us?"

"I shall tell you that when we are somewhere more private," said Scrimgeour. "Is there such a place?" he demanded of Mr. Weasley.

"Yes, of course," said Mr. Weasley, who looked nervous. "The, er, sitting room, why don't you use that?"

"You can lead the way," Scrimgeour said to Ron. "There will be no need for you to accompany us, Arthur."

Harry saw Mr. Weasley exchange a worried look with Mrs. Weasley as he, Abigail, Ron, and Hermione stood up. As they led the way back to the house in silence, Harry knew that the other three were thinking the same as he was; Scrimgeour must, somehow, had learned that the four of them were planning to drop out of Hogwarts.

Scrimgeour did not speak as they all passed through the messed kitchen and into the Burrow's sitting room. Although the garden had been full of soft golden evening light, it was already dark in here; Harry flicked his wand at the oil lamps as he entered and they illuminated the shabby but cozy room. Scrimgeour sat himself in the sagging armchair that Mr. Weasley normally occupied, leaving Harry, Abigail, Ron, and Hermione to squeeze side by side onto the sofa. Once they had done so, Scrimgeour spoke.

"I have some questions for the three of you, and I think it will be best if we do it individually. If you three-" he pointed at Harry, Abigail, and Hermione- "can wait upstairs, I will start with Ronald."

"We're not going anywhere," said Harry, while the girls nodded vigorously. "You can speak to us together, or not at all."

Scrimgeour gave Harry a cold, appraising look. Harry had the impression that the Minister was wondering whether it was worthwhile opening hostilities this early.

"Very well then, together," he said, shrugging. He cleared his throat. "I am here, as I'm sure you know, because of Albus Dumbledore's will."

Harry, Abigail, Ron, and Hermione looked at one another.

"A surprise, apparently! You were not aware then that Dumbledore had left you anything?"

"A-all of us?" said Ron, "Me and Hermione and Abbie too?"

"Yes, all of-"

But Harry interrupted.

"Dumbledore died over a month ago. Why has it taken this long to give us what he left us?"

"Isn't it obvious?" said Abigail, before Scrimgeour could answer. "They wanted to examine whatever he's left us. You had no right to do that!" she said, her voice seething.

"I had every right," said Scrimgeour dismissively. "The Decree for Justifiable Confiscation gives the Ministry the power the confiscate the contents of a will-"

"That law was created to stop wizards passing on Dark artifacts," said Hermione, joining in, "and the Ministry is supposed to have powerful evidence that the deceased's possessions are illegal before seizing them! Are you telling me that you thought Dumbledore was trying to pass us something cursed?"

"Are you planning to follow a career in Magical Law, Miss Granger?" asked Scrimgeour.

"No, I'm not," retorted Hermione. "I'm hoping to do some good in the world!"

Ron laughed. Scrimgeour's eyes flickered toward him and away again as Harry spoke.

"So why have you decided to let us have our things now? Can't think of a pretext to keep them?"

"No, it'll be because thirty-one days are up," said Hermione at once.

"They can't keep the objects longer than that unless they can prove they're dangerous," said Abigail, her arms tightly crossed. "Right?"

"Would you say you were close to Dumbledore, Ronald?" asked Scrimgeour, ignoring the girls. Ron looked startled.

"Me? Not- not really... It was always Harry who..."

Ron looked around at the other three, to see Hermione giving him a _stop-talking-now_ sort of look, but the damage was done; Scrimgeour looked as though he had heard exactly what he had expected, and wanted, to hear. He swooped like a bird of prey upon Ron's answer.

"If you were not very close to Dumbledore, how do you account for the fact that he remembered you in his will? He made exceptionally few personal bequests. The vast majority of his possessions- his private library, his magical instruments, and other personal effects- were left to Hogwarts. Why do you think you were singled out?"

"I...dunno," said Ron. "I...when I say we weren't close...I mean, I think he liked me..."

"You're being modest, Ron," said Hermione. "Dumbledore was very fond of you."

This was stretching the truth to breaking point; as far as Harry knew, Ron and Dumbledore had never been alone together, and direct contact between them had been negligible. However, Scrimgeour did not seem to be listening. He put his hand inside his cloak and drew out a drawstring pouch much larger than the one Hagrid had given Harry. From it, he removed a scroll of parchment which he unrolled and read aloud.

"'_The Last Will and Testament of Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore'_... Yes, here we are... _'To Ronald Bilius Weasley, I leave my Deluminator, in the hope that he will remember me when he uses it.'"  
_  
Scrimgeour took from the bag an object that Harry had seen before: It looked something like a silver cigarette lighter, but it had, he knew, the power to suck all light from a place, and restore it, with a simple click. Scrimgeour leaned forward and passed the Deluminator to Ron, who took it and turned it over in the fingers looking stunned.

"That is a valuable object," said Scrimgeour, watching Ron. "It may even be unique. Certainly it is of Dumbledore's own design. Why would he have left you and item so rare?"

Ron shook his head, looking bewildered.

"Dumbledore must have taught thousands of students," Scrimgeour persevered. "Yet the only ones he remembered in his will are you four. Why is that? To what use did he think you would put to the Deluminator, Mr. Weasley?"

"Put out lights, I s'pose," mumbled Ron. "What else could I do with it?"

Evidently Scrimgeour had no suggestions. After squinting at Ron for a moment or two, he turned back to Dumbledore's will.

_"'To Miss Hermione Jean Granger, I leave my copy of The Tales of Beedle the Bard, in the hope that she will find it entertaining and instructive.'"_

Scrimgeour now pulled out of the bag a small book that looked as ancient as the copy of _Secrets of the Darkest Art _upstairs. Its binding was stained and peeling in places. Hermione took it from Scrimgeour without a word. She held the book in her lap and gazed at it. Harry saw that the title was in runes; he had never learned to read them. As he looked, a tear splashed onto the embossed symbols.

"Why do you think Dumbledore left you that book, Miss Granger?" asked Scrimgeour.

"He... he knew I liked books," said Hermione in a thick voice, mopping her eyes with her sleeve.

"But why that particular book?"

"I don't know. He must have thought I'd enjoy it."

"Did you ever discuss codes, or any means of passing secret messages, with Dumbledore?"

"No, I didn't," said Hermione, still wiping her eyes on her sleeve. "And if the Ministry hasn't found any hidden codes in this book in thirty-one days, I doubt that I will."

She suppressed a sob. They were wedged together so tightly that Ron had difficulty extracting his arm to put it around Hermione's shoulders. Scrimgeour turned back to the will.

_'"To Miss Abigail Helena Black,'" _he read off, and Harry felt her stiffen beside him, _"'I leave a very special key of mine, carefully crafted, in the hope that it will, one day, unlock the answers to her most important of questions.'"  
_  
From the bag Scrimgeour pulled out a small silver key, no bigger than the palm of his hand, dangling from a long silver chain. He leaned forward and Abigail took it from his hand, threading the chain about her fingers and holding it up to eye the key. Harry looked at it; it was certainly beautiful, polished and carved with beautiful swirls along its silver body.

"Why do you suppose Dumbledore left you this key, Miss Black?" Scrimgeour pried.

"I..." Abigail shook her head, still looking at the key. "I- I don't know. I've never even seen it before."

"So Dumbledore never left you anything to be opened with it?" Scrimgeour asked. "No type of box or container?"

She shook her head as she took the key into her other hand, running her fingers along the smooth metal.

"We searched his office," Scrimgeour went on, and this finally pulled her attention back to him. "We found nothing. There was nothing the key fit. You are positive: he never showed you anything the key unlocked, or of its likeness?"

"Never," she said. "Like I said, I've never seen it before in my life."

Scrimgeour said nothing, his face remaining impassive, but Harry could almost see the irritablity under the calm facade. He looked back once more at the will.

_"'To Harry James Potter,'" _he read, and Harry's insides contracted with a sudden excitement, _"'I leave the Snitch he caught in his first Quidditch match at Hogwarts, as a reminder of the rewards of perseverance and skill.'"  
_  
As Scrimgeour pulled out the tiny, walnut-sized golden ball, its silver wings fluttered rather feebly, and Harry could not help feeling a definite sense of anticlimax.

"Why did Dumbledore leave you this Snitch?" asked Scrimgeour.

"No idea," said Harry. "For the reasons you just read out, I suppose... to remind me what you can get if you... persevere and whatever it was."

"You think this a mere symbolic keepsake, then?"

"I suppose so," said Harry. "What else could it be?"

"I'm asking the questions," said Scrimgeour, shifting his chair a little closer to the sofa. Dusk was really falling outside now; the marquee beyond the windows towered ghostly white over the hedge.

"I notice that your birthday cake is in the shape of a Snitch," Scrimgeour said to Harry. "Why is that?"

Hermione laughed derisively.

"Oh, it can't be a reference to the fact Harry's a great Seeker, that's way too obvious," she said. "There must be a secret message from Dumbledore hidden in the icing!"

Abigail actually had to cough to keep from laughing. Scrimgeour did not comment.

"I don't think there's anything hidden in the icing," said Scrimgeour, "but a Snitch would be a very good hiding place for a small object. You know why, I'm sure?"

Harry shrugged, Hermione, however, answered: Harry thought that answering questions correctly was such a deeply ingrained habit she could not suppress the urge.

"Because Snitches have flesh memories," she said.

"What?" said Harry and Ron together; both considered Hermione's Quidditch knowledge negligible.

"Correct," said Scrimgeour. "A Snitch is not touched by bare skin before it is released, not even by the maker, who wears gloves. It carries an enchantment by which it can identify the first human to lay hands upon it, in case of a disputed capture. This Snitch-" he held up the tiny golden ball- "will remember your touch, Potter. It occurs to me that Dumbledore, who had prodigious magical skill, whatever his other faults, might have enchanted this Snitch so that it will open only for you."

Harry's heart was beating rather fast. He was sure that Scrimgeour was right. How could he avoid taking the Snitch with his bare hand in front of the Minister?

"You don't say anything," said Scrimgeour. "Perhaps you already know what the Snitch contains?"

"No," said Harry, still wondering how he could appear to touch the Snitch without really doing so. If only he knew Legilimency, really knew it, and could read Hermione's mind; he could practically hear her brain whizzing beside him.

"Take it," said Scrimgeour quietly.

Harry met the Minister's yellow eyes and knew he had no option but to obey. He held out his hand, and Scrimgeour leaned forward again and place the Snitch, slowly and deliberately, into Harry's palm.

Nothing happened. As Harry's fingers closed around the Snitch, its tired wings fluttered and were still. Scrimgeour, Abigail, Ron, and Hermione continued to gaze avidly at the now partially concealed ball, as if still hoping it might transform in some way.

"That was dramatic," said Harry coolly. His friends laughed.

"That's all, then, is it?" asked Abigail, making to raise herself off the sofa.

"Not quite," said Scrimgeour, who looked bad tempered now. "Dumbledore left you a second bequest, Potter."

"What is it?" asked Harry, excitement rekindling.

Scrimgeour did not bother to read from the will this time.

"The sword of Godric Gryffindor," he said. Abigail's eyes widened into sizes resembling dinner plates. Hermione and Ron both stiffened. Harry looked around for a sign of the ruby-encrusted hilt, but Scrimgeour did not pull the sword from the leather pouch, which in any case looked much too small to contain it.

"So where is it?" Harry asked suspiciously.

"Unfortunately," said Scrimgeour, "that sword was not Dumbledore's to give away. The sword of Godric Gryffindor is an important historical artifact, and as such, belongs-"

"It belongs to Harry!" said Hermione hotly. "It chose him, he was the one who found it, it came to him out of the Sorting Hat-"

"According to reliable historical sources, the sword may present itself to any worthy Gryffindor," said Scrimgeour. "That does not make it the exclusive property of Mr. Potter, whatever Dumbledore may have decided." Scrimgeour scratched his badly shaven cheek, scrutinizing Harry. "Why do you think-?"

"-Dumbledore wanted to give me the sword?" said Harry, struggling to keep his temper. "Maybe he thought it would look nice on my wall."

"This is not a joke, Potter!" growled Scrimgeour. "Was it because Dumbledore believed that only the sword of Godric Gryffindor could defeat the Heir of Slytherin? Did he wish to give you that sword, Potter, because he believed, as do many, that you are the one destined to destroy He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?"

"Interesting theory," said Harry. "Has anyone ever tried sticking a sword in Voldemort? Maybe the Ministry should put some people onto that, instead of wasting their time stripping down Deluminators or covering up breakouts from Azkaban. So this is what you've been doing, Minister, shut up in your office, trying to break open a Snitch? People are dying- I was nearly one of them- Voldemort chased me across three countries, he nearly killed everyone I care about, but there's no word about any of that from the Ministry, has there? And you still expect us to cooperate with you!"

"You go too far!" shouted Scrimgeour, standing up: Harry jumped to his feet too. Scrimgeour limped toward Harry and jabbed him hard in the chest with the point of his wand; It singed a hole in Harry's T-shirt like a lit cigarette.

"Oi!" said Ron, jumping up and reaching for his own wand, however Abigail was already up with hers raised, but Harry said, "No! D'you want to give him an excuse to arrest us?"

"Remembered you're not at school, have you?" said Scrimgeour breathing hard into Harry's face. "Remembered that I am not Dumbledore, who forgave your insolence and insubordination? You may wear that scar like a crown, Potter, but it is not up to a seventeen-year-old boy to tell me how to do my job! It's time you learned some respect!"

"It's time you earned it." said Harry.

The floor trembled; there was a sound of running footsteps, then the door to the sitting room burst open and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley ran in.

"We- we thought we heard-" began Mr. Weasley, looking thoroughly alarmed at the sight of Harry and the Minister virtually nose to nose and Abigail behind Harry with her wand pointing straight at Scrimgeour.

"-raised voices," panted Mrs. Weasley.

Scrimgeour took a couple of steps back from Harry, glancing at the hole he had made in Harry's T-shirt. He seemed to regret his loss of temper.

"It- it was nothing," he growled. "I ... regret your attitude," he said, looking Harry full in the face once more. "You seem to think that the Ministry does not desire what you- what Dumbledore- desired. We ought to work together."

"I don't like your methods, Minister," said Harry. "Remember?"

For the second time, he raised his right fist and displayed to Scrimgeour the scar that still showed white on the back of it, spelling _I must not tell lies_. Scrimgeour's expression hardened. He turned away without another word and limped from the room. Mrs. Weasley hurried after him; Harry heard her stop at the back door. After a minute or so she called, "He's gone!"

"What did he want?" Mr. Weasley asked, looking around at Harry, Abigail (who had lowered her wand), Ron, and Hermione as Mrs. Weasley came hurrying back to them.

"To give us what Dumbledore left us," said Harry. "They've only just released the content of his will."

Outside in the garden, over the dinner tables, the four objects Scrimgeour had given them were passed from hand to hand. Everyone exclaimed over the Deluminator and The Tales of Beedle the Bard and questioned over the key and lamented the fact that Scrimgeour had refused to pass on the sword, but none of them could offer any suggestion as to why Dumbledore would have left Harry an old Snitch. As Mr. Weasley examined the Deluminator for the third of fourth time, Mrs. Weasley said tentatively, "Harry, dear, everyone's awfully hungry we didn't like to start without you... Shall I serve dinner now?"

They all ate rather hurriedly and then after a hasty chorus of "Happy Birthday" and much gulping of cake, the party broke up. Hagrid, who was invited to the wedding the following day, but was far too bulky to sleep in the overstretched Burrow, left to set up a tent for himself in a neighboring field.

"Meet us upstairs," Harry whispered to Hermione, while they helped Mrs. Weasley restore the garden to its normal state. "After everyone's gone to bed."

Up in the attic room, Ron examined his Deluminator, and Harry filled Hagrid's moleskin purse, not with gold, but with those items he most prized, apparently worthless though some of them were: the Marauder's Map, the shard of Sirius's enchanted mirror, and R.A.B.'s locket. He pulled the string tight and slipped the purse around his neck, then sat holding the old Snitch and watching its wings flutter feebly. At last, Hermione tapped on the door and she and Abigail tiptoed inside.

"_Muffliato_," she whispered, waving her wand in the direction of the stairs.

"Thought you didn't approve of that spell?" said Ron.

"Times change," said Hermione. "Now, show us that Deluminator."

Ron obliged at once. Holding it up in front of him, he clicked it. The solitary lamp they had lit went out at once.

"The thing is," whispered Hermione through the dark, "we could have achieved that with Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder."

There was a small click, and the ball of light from the lamp flew back to the ceiling and illuminated them all once more.

"Still, it's cool," said Ron, a little defensively. "And from what they said, Dumbledore invented it himself!"

"I know but, surely he wouldn't have singled you out in his will just to help us turn out the lights!"

"D'you think he knew the Ministry would confiscate his will and examine everything he'd left us?" asked Harry.

"Definitely," said Abigail, speaking up. She fingered the silver key, now hanging from her neck by the silver chain. "He couldn't tell us in the will why he was leaving us these things, but that will doesn't explain..."

"... why he couldn't have given us a hint when he was alive?" asked Ron.

"Well, exactly," said Hermione, now flicking through _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_. "If these things are important enough to pass on right under the nose of the Ministry, you'd think he'd have left us know why... unless he thought it was obvious?"

"Thought wrong, then, didn't he?" said Ron. "I always said he was mental. Brilliant and everything, but cracked. Leaving Harry an old Snitch- what the hell was that about?"

"We've no idea," said Abigail, gesturing to herself and Hermione. "When Scrimgeour made you take it, Harry, I was so sure that something was going to happen!"

"Yeah, well," said Harry, his pulse quickened as he raised the Snitch in his fingers. "I wasn't going to try too hard in front of Scrimgeour was I?"

"What do you mean?" asked Abigail curiously.

"The Snitch I caught in my first ever Quidditch match?" said Harry. "Ron, Hermione, don't you remember?"

Hermione looked simply bemused. Ron, however, gasped, pointing frantically from Harry to the Snitch and back again until he found his voice.

"That was the one you nearly swallowed!"

"What?" Abigail asked, confused.

"Last summer, we told you about Harry's first few years at Hogwarts," said Hermione. "Remember, in Harry's first ever match he caught the Snitch in his mouth, not his hand!"

"I remember now!" Abigail said, looking bewildered. "That's the same one, then?"

"Exactly the same," said Harry, and with his heart beating fast, he pressed his mouth to the Snitch.

It did not open. Frustration and bitter disappointment welled up inside him: He lowered the golden sphere, but then Hermione cried out.

"Writing! There's writing on it, quick, look!" He nearly dropped the Snitch in surprise and excitement. Hermione was quite right. Engraved upon the smooth golden surface, where seconds before there had been nothing, were five words written in the thin, slanted handwriting that Harry recognized as Dumbledore's:

_I open at the close._

He had barely read them when the words vanished again.

"'I open at the close'... What's that supposed to mean?"

Abigail, Hermione, and Ron shook their heads, looking blank.

"'I open at the close... at the close... I open at the close...'"

But no matter how often they repeated the words, with many different inflections, they were unable to wring any more meaning from them.

"And the sword," said Ron finally, when they had at last abandoned their attempts to divine meaning in the Snitch's inscription. "Why did he want Harry to have the sword?"

"And why couldn't he just have told me?" Harry said quietly. "I was there, it was right there on the wall of his office during all our talks last year! If he wanted me to have it, why didn't he just give it to me then?"

He felt as thought he were sitting in an examination with a question he ought to have been able to answer in front of him, his brain slow and unresponsive. Was there something he had missed in the long talks with Dumbledore last year? Ought he to know what it all meant? Had Dumbledore expected him to understand?

"And as for this book." said Hermione, "_The Tales of Beedle the Bard_... I've never even heard of them!"

"You've never heard of The Tales of Beedle the Bard?" said Ron incredulously. "You're kidding, right?"

"No, I'm not," said Hermione in surprise. "Do you know them then?"

"Well, of course I do!"

Harry looked up, diverted. The circumstance of Ron having read a book that Hermione had not was unprecedented. Ron, however, looked bemused by their surprise.

"Oh come on! All the old kids' stories are supposed to be Beedle's aren't they? 'The Fountain of Fair Fortune' ... 'The Wizard and the Hopping Pot'... 'Babbitty Rabbitty and her Cackling Stump'..."

"Excuse me?" said Hermione giggling. "What was the last one?"

"Come off it!" said Ron, looking in disbelief from Harry to Hermione. "You must've heard of Babbitty Rabbitty-"

"Ron, Harry and Hermione were brought up by Muggles!" said Abigail.

"We didn't hear stories like that when we were little," said Hermione. "We heard 'Snow White and the Seven Dwarves' and 'Cinderella'-"

"What's that, an illness?" asked Ron.

"So these are children's stories?" asked Hermione, bending again over the runes.

"Yeah," said Abigail, looking over at the book. "Tonks used to read them to me when I was little, before I ever started school. These were for little children, much younger than we are."

"Yeah." said Ron uncertainly. "I mean, just what you hear, you know, that all these old stories came from Beedle. I dunno what they're like in the original versions."

"But I wonder why Dumbledore thought I should read them?" Hermione questioned.

Something cracked downstairs.

"Probably just Charlie, now Mum's asleep, sneaking off to regrow his hair," said Ron nervously.

"All the same, we should get to bed," whispered Hermione. "It wouldn't do to oversleep tomorrow."

"No," agreed Ron. "A brutal quadruple murder by the bridegroom's mother might put a bit of damper on the wedding. I'll get the light."

And he clicked the Deluminator once more as the girls left the room.

**Sorry for being a day late! I had a major Chem project to finish! :P AP SUCKS.**

**Anyway, so earlier in these last couple of weeks, I was thinking about the end of the story (very sad, but it has to end sometime) and I had an interesting idea, per say, and I want to ask you- my readers- if it holds any kind of interest. As I was thinking about the story again, thinking through details, notes, making sure the pieces fit (over and over every once in a bit, as normal for me :)), I recalled this story I had read not too long ago that was written in another section of this site (it was a cartoon movie x)). The whole story revolved around a "Q&A" with the cartoon characters of the movie; the questions were submitted in reviews or PMs to the author/story, and then the author took a question and wrote a chapter with a funny or sometimes even serious answer to the reader's question(s). I wondered: what if I did the same?**

**So, propositioning, I want feedback from all of you. My idea is that once How Three Became Four ends in a few months (so close and far all at once! :| ), if the feedback for the idea is good, I would love to do a "Q&A" story after the Books are written and sealed. How this would work would be: I would set up a story with an introduction a bit after the end of the stories, and, simple as that, that's where it would all begin. You, the reader, would begin the posting of questions, thoughts, curiousities, etcetera, etcetera. As questions came in, they would be answered by me (and maybe even some of the characters :))**

**Now for the explanation for my crazy ideas :) What I really want to know is any of your insights, questions, curiousities, confusions, thoughts, reasonings, anything you would want to ask me about the stories, the background for it, the process, the idea- anything you've been wanting to ask and know or let me know (rhymes!), whether recently or since the very beginnning. And don't worry about full author seriousness- there will be some craziness too! x) If you have questions for Harry, Abigail, or any of the rest of cast, readers can post those too, for funny and sometimes even quite odd, nearly uncanon remarks from this wacked out brain of mine! It's half the fun! (And they may even pop in on my own questions ;D)**

**So make sure to make note, in your next review or a PM or however, what you think of this crazy yet, you must admit, interesting idea! :) I don't want to start something silly and have no one like it! **

**That's really about it! Thank you for your consideration!**

**Next Update: 12/22/12 (might be my last 2012 update! ;))**


	6. Chapter 6

How Three Became Four

**BUM BUM BUM! :) Here we are readers, at the third and final book of the How Three Became Four series! I can't believe we've finally made it! I hope you're all excited! After the actionated, romanticised, wild adventures of Harry's sixth year, we now come to what would be his seventh, if not, per say, he was going on quite the interesting adventure ;) There will be even more action, excitement, and a lot more romance! We all love our new little addition to Harry's life! :) Like the first and second books, the story will consist of a mushed versiony-thingy of the seventh Harry Potter book and the seventh Harry Potter movie. I hope that you enjoy our "home-stretch story", and I hope you keep reviewing for me :) Ready? Set? Action.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or anything included or endorsed by Warner Brothers or J.K. Rowling :) I think that about covers it.**

6) The Wedding

Three o'clock on the following afternoon found Harry, Ron, Fred and George standing outside the great white marquee in the orchard, awaiting the arrival of the wedding guests. Harry had, with never a question of it, worn his father's jacket, his skin still tingling under the satin lining.

All four of them were clutching seating plans, so that they could help show people to the right seats. A host of white-robed waiters had arrived an hour earlier, along with a golden jacketed band, and all of these wizards were currently sitting a short distance away under a tree. Harry could see a blue haze of pipe smoke issuing from the spot. Behind Harry, the entrance to the marquee revealed rows and rows of fragile golden chairs set on either side of a long purple carpet. The supporting poles were entwined with white and gold flowers. Fred and George had fastened an enormous bunch of golden balloons over the exact point where Bill and Fleur would shortly become husband and wife. Outside, butterflies and bees were hovering lazily over the grass and hedgerow. Harry was rather uncomfortable; the day was hot and his dress robes felt warm and tight in the full glare of a summer's day.

"When I get married," said Fred, tugging at the collar of his own robes, "I won't be bothering with any of this nonsense. You can all wear what you like, and I'll put a full Body Bird Curse on Mum until it's all over."

"She wasn't too bad this morning, considering," said George. "Cried a bit about Percy not being here, but who wants him. Oh blimey, brace yourselves, here they come, look."

Brightly colored figures were appearing, one by one out of nowhere at the distant boundary of the yard. Within minutes a procession had formed, which began to snake its way up through the garden toward the marquee. Exotic flowers and bewitched birds fluttered on the witches' hats, while precious gems glittered from many of the wizards' cravats; a hum of excited chatter grew louder and louder, drowning the sound of the bees as the crowd approached the tent.

"Excellent, I think I see a few veela cousins," said George, craning his neck for a better look. "They'll need help understanding our English customs, I'll look after them..."

"Not so fast, Your Holeyness," said Fred, and darting past the gaggle of middle-aged witches heading for the procession, he said, "Here- permetiez moi to assister vous," to a pair of pretty French girls, who giggled and allowed him to escort them inside. George was left to deal with the middle-aged witches and Ron took charge of Mr. Weasley's old Ministry-colleague Perkins, while a rather deaf old couple fell to Harry's lot.

"Wotcher," said a familiar voice as he came out of the marquee again and found Tonks and Lupin at the front of the queue. She had turned blonde for the occasion. "Arthur told us you were out here seating guests. Sorry about last night," she added in a whisper as Harry led them up the aisle. "The Ministry's being very anti-werewolf at the museum and we thought our presence might not do you any favors."

"It's fine, I understand," said Harry, speaking more to Lupin than Tonks. Lupin gave him a swift smile, but as they turned away Harry saw Lupin's face fall again into lines of misery. He did not understand it, but there was no time to dwell on the matter. Hagrid was causing a certain amount of disruption. Having misunderstood Fred's directions as he had sat himself, not upon the magically enlarged and reinforced seat set aside for him in the back row, but on five sets that now resembled a large pile of golden matchsticks.

While Mr. Weasley repaired the damage and Hagrid shouted apologies to anybody who would listen, Harry hurried back to the entrance to find Ron face-to-face with a most eccentric-looking wizard. Slightly cross-eyed, with shoulder-length white hair the texture of candyfloss, he wore a cap whose tassel dangled in front of his nose and robes of an eye-watering shade of egg-yolk yellow. An odd symbol, rather like a triangular eye, glistened from a golden chain around his neck.

"Mr. Potter," the man achnoledged, obvoiusly aware of who he was. "Xenophilius Lovegood," he said, extending a hand to Harry, "my daughter and I live just over the hill, so kind of the good Weasleys to invite us. But I think you know my Luna?" he added to Ron.

"Yes," said Ron. "Isn't she with you?"

"She lingered in that charming little garden to say hello to the gnomes, such a glorious infestation! How few wizards realize just how much we can learn from the wise little gnomes- or, to give them their correct name, the _'Gernumbli_ _gardensi_.'"

"Ours do know a lot of excellent swear words," said Ron, "but I think Fred and George taught them those."

He led a party of warlocks into the marquee as Luna rushed up.

"Hello, Harry!" she said.

"Hi, Luna," said Harry. "How are you?"

"Great," she said brightly. "How are you?"

"Err- fine," said Harry.

"No you're not," she said bluntly, smiling her dreamy smile at him.

"How did you-"

"Oh, just your expression," she said.

Like her father, Luna was wearing bright yellow robes, which she had accessorized with a large sunflower in her hair. Once you got over the brightness of it all, the general effect was quite pleasant. At least there were no radishes dangling from her ears.

Xenophilius, who was deep in conversation with an acquaintance, had missed the exchange between Luna and Harry. Biding the wizard farewell, he turned to his daughter, who held up her finger and said, "Daddy, look- one of the gnomes actually bit me."

"How wonderful! Gnome saliva is enormously beneficial." said Mr. Lovegood, seizing Luna's outstretched fingers and examining the bleeding puncture marks. "Luna, my love, if you should feel any burgeoning talent today- perhaps an unexpected urge to sing opera or to declaims in Mermish- do not repress it! You may have been gifted by the Gernumblies!"

Ron, passing them in the opposite direction, let out a loud snort.

"Ron can laugh," said Luna serenely as Harry led her and Xenophilius toward their seats, "but my father has done a lot of research on Gernumbli magic."

"Really?" said Harry, who had long since decided not to challenge Luna or her father's peculiar views. "Are you sure you don't want to put anything on that bite, though?"

"Oh, it's fine," said Luna, sucking her finger in a dreamy fashion and looking Harry up and down. "You look smart. I told Daddy most people would probably wear dress robes, but he believes you ought to wear sun colors to a wedding, for luck, you know."

As she drifted off after her father, Ron reappeared with an elderly witch clutching his arm. Her beaky nose, red-rimmed eyes, and leathery pink hat gave her the look of a bad-tempered flamingo.

"...and your hair's much too long, Ronald, for a moment I thought you were Ginevra. Merlin's beard, what is Xenophilius Lovegood wearing? He looks like an omelet. And who are you?" she barked at Harry.

"Oh yeah, Auntie Muriel, this is Harry, Harry Potter."

"Harry Potter!" The woman said, eying him up and down. "I was hoping to meet you. I've heard you're quite close friends with Ronald, or has he merely been boasting?"

"No, no, he's telling the truth," Harry said hastily, eying Ron's uncomfortable expression.

"Hmm. Not as gormless as he seems, then," Auntie Muriel said, not seeing Ron's ears flash red. "I've just been instructing the bride on how best to wear my tiara," she shouted at Harry. "Goblin-made, you know, and been in my family for centuries. She's a good-looking girl, but still- French. Well, well, find me a good seat, Ronald, I am a hundred and seven and I ought not to be on my feet too long."

Ron gave Harry a meaningful look as he passed and did not reappear for some time. When next they met at the entrance, Harry had shown a dozen more people to their places. The Marquee was nearly full now and for the first time there was no queue outside.

"Nightmare, Muriel is," said Ron, mopping his forehead on his sleeve. "She used to come for Christmas every year, then, thank God, she took offense because Fred and George set off a Dungbomb under her chair at diner. Dad always says she'll have written them out of her will- like they care, they're going to end up richer than anyone in the family, rate they're going... Wow," he added, blinking rather rapidly as Hermione came hurrying toward them. "You look great!"

"Always the tone of surprise," said Hermione, though she smiled. She was wearing a ruffly, red-colored dress with matching high heels; her hair was gently curled. "Your Great-Aunt Muriel doesn't agree, I just met her upstairs while she was giving Fleur the tiara. She said, 'Oh dear, is this the Muggle-born?' and then, 'Bad posture and skinny ankles.'"

"Don't take it personally, she's rude to everyone," said Ron.

"Talking about Muriel?" inquired George, reemerging from the marquee with Fred. "Yeah, she's just told me my ears are lopsided. Old bat. I wish old Uncle Bilius was still with us, though; he was a right laugh at weddings."

"Wasn't he the one who saw a Grim and died twenty-four hours later?" asked Hermione.

"Well, yeah, he went a bit odd toward the end," conceded George.

"But before he went loopy he was the life and soul of the party," said Fred. "He used to down an entire bottle of firewhisky, then run onto the dance floor, hoist up his robes, and start pulling bunches of flowers out of his-"

"Yes, he sounds like a real charmer," came a voice from behind them as they roared with laughter; they all turned to see Abigail, striding toward them.

Harry's mouth went slack and his jaw dropped. She was wearing a floaty lilac dress and silver heels. The dress fell just above her knees, making her look taller than Harry had ever seen.

Harry's heart missed a beat when his eyes caught her hair; lying straight and shiny, it had been cut short, falling to the back of her jaw, only an inch or so under her ear. The right side was pulled back with a barette.

Fred and George wolf-whistled simultaneously, grinning with mischief when she blushed.

"Your hair!" Hermione exclaimed, reaching out to finger the shortened ends of her locks. "Wow!"

"Bloody hell," said Ron, looking stupified. "It's so... short!"

"You amaze me," said Abigail, grinning at him.

"Y- you look g- great," Harry finally made himself choke out, quickly clearing his throat. "Um- really, really great.

Her cheeks, the red having faded from her face, flushed a light pink.

"Thanks," she said genuinely, gently smiling.

None of them noticed the latecomer, a dark-haired young man with a large, curved nose and thick black eyebrows, until he held out his invitation to Ron and said, with his eyes on Hermione, "You look vunderful."

"Viktor!" she shrieked, and dropped her small beaded bag, which made a loud thump quite disproportionate to its size. As she scrambled, blushing, to pick it up, she said "I didn't know you were- goodness- it's lovely to see- how are you?"

Ron's ears had turned bright red again. After glancing at Krum's invitation as if he did not believe a word of it, he said, much too loudly, "How come you're here?"

"Fleur invited me," said Krum, eyebrows raised.

Harry, who had no grudge against Krum, shook the man's hand with his free one; then, feeling that it would be prudent to remove Krum from Ron's vicinity, offered to show him his seat.

"Your friend is not pleased to see me," said Krum, as they entered the now packed marquee.

"He's just... tired," Harry muttered the excuse, but Krum was not really listening. His appearance was causing a stir, particularly amongst the veela cousins: He was, after all, a famous Quidditch player. While people were still craning their necks to get a good look at him, Abigail, Ron, Hermione, Fred, and George came hurrying down the aisle.

"Time to sit down," Fred told Harry, "or we're going to get run over by the bride."

Harry, Abigail, Ron, and Hermione took their seats in the second row behind Fred and George. Hermione looked rather pink and Ron's ears were still scarlet. After a few moments he muttered to Harry, "Did you see he's grown a stupid little beard?"

Harry gave a noncommittal grunt.

A sense of jittery anticipation had filled the warm tent, the general murmuring broken by occasional spurts of excited laughter. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley strolled up the aisle, smiling and waving at relatives; Mrs. Weasley was wearing a brand-new set of amethyst colored robes with a matching hat.

A moment later Bill and Charlie stood up at the front of the marquee, both wearing dress robes, with larger white roses in their buttonholes; Fred wolf-whistled and there was an outbreak of giggling from the veela cousins. Then the crowd fell silent as music swelled from what seemed to be the golden balloons.

"Ooooh!" said Hermione, swiveling around in her seat to look at the entrance.

A great collective sigh issued from the assembled witches and wizards as Monsieur Delacour and Fleur came walking up the aisle, Fleur gliding, Monsieur Delacour bouncing and beaming. Fleur was wearing a very simple white dress and seemed to be emitting a strong, silvery glow. While her radiance usually dimmed everyone else by comparison, today it beautified everybody it fell upon. Ginny and Gabrielle, both wearing golden dresses, looked even prettier than usual and once Fleur had reached him, Bill did not look as though he had ever met Fenrir Greyback.

"Ladies and gentlemen," said a slightly singsong voice, and with a slight shock, Harry saw the same small, tufty-hired wizard who had presided at Dumbledore's funeral, now standing in front of Bill and Fleur. "We are gathered here today to celebrate the union of two faithful souls..."

"Yes, my tiara set off the whole thing nicely," said Auntie Muriel in a rather carrying whisper. "But I must say, Ginevra's dress is far too low cut."

Abigail looked at Harry, grinning at the expense of Ginny's mischivious expression, then quickly faced the front again. Harry's mind wandered a long way from the marquee, back to the afternoons spent alone with Abigail in lonely parts of the school grounds. They seemed so long ago; they had always seemed too good to be true, as though he had been stealing shining hours from a normal person's life, a person without a lightning-shaped scar on his forehead...

"Do you, William Arthur, take Fleur Isabelle...?"

In the front row, Mrs. Weasley and Madame Delacour were both sobbing quietly into scraps of lace. Trumpetlike sounds from the back of the marquee told everyone that Hagrid had taken out one of his own tablecloth-sized handkerchiefs. Hermione turned around and beamed at Harry; her eyes too were full of tears.

"...then I declare you bonded for life."

The tufty-haired wizard waved his hand high over the heads of Bill and Fleur and a shower of silver stars fell upon them, spiraling around their now entwined figures. As Fred and George led a round of applause, the golden balloons overhead burst. Birds of paradise and tiny golden bells flew and floated out of them, adding their songs and chimes to the din.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" called the tufty-haired wizard. "If you would please stand up!"

They all did so, Auntie Muriel grumbling audibly; he waved his wand again. The seats on which they had been sitting rose gracefully into the air as the canvas walls of the marquee vanished, so that they stood beneath a canopy supported by golden poles, with a glorious view of the sunlit orchard and surrounding countryside. Next, a pool of molten gold spread from the center of the tent to form a gleaming dance floor; the hovering chairs grouped themselves around small, white-clothed tables, which all floated gracefully back to earth round it, and the golden-jacketed band trooped toward a podium.

"Smooth," said Ron approvingly as the waiters popped up on all sides, some hearing silver trays of pumpkin juice, butterbeer, and firewhisky, others tottering piles of tarts and sandwiches.

"We should go and congratulate them!" said Hermione, standing on tiptoe to see the place where Bill and Fleur had vanished amid a crowd of well-wishers.

"We'll have time later," shrugged Ron, snatching four butterbeers from a passing tray and handing one to each Harry and Abigail. "Hermione, cop hold, let's grab a table... Not there! Nowhere near Muriel-"

Ron led the way across the empty dance floor, glancing left and right as he went; Harry felt sure that he was keeping an eye out for Krum. By the time they had reached the other side of the marquee, most of the tables were occupied: The emptiest was the one where Luna sat alone.

"All right if we join you?" asked Ron.

"Oh yes," she said happily. "Daddy's just gone to give Bill and Fleur our present."

"What is it, a lifetime's supply of Gurdyroots?" asked Ron.

Hermione aimed a kick at him under the table, but caught Harry instead. Eyes watering in pain, Harry lost track of the conversation for a few moments.

The band had begun to play, Bill and Fleur took to the dance floor first, to great applause; after a while, Mr. Weasley led Madame Delacour onto the floor, followed by Mr. Weasley and Fleur's father.

"I like this song," said Luna, swaying in time to the waltzlike tune, and a few seconds later she stood up and glided onto the dance floor, where she revolved on the spot, quite alone, eyes closed and waving her arms.

"She's great isn't she?" said Ron admiringly. "Always good value."

But the smile vanished from his face at once: Viktor Krum had dropped into Luna's vacant seat. Hermione looked pleasurably flustered but this time Krum had not come to compliment her. With a scowl on his face he said, "Who is that man in the yellow?"

"That's Xenophilius Lovegood, he's the father of a friend of ours," said Ron. His pugnacious tone indicated that they were not about to laugh at Xenophilius, despite the clear provocation. "Come and dance," he added abruptly to Hermione.

She looked taken aback, but pleased too, and got up. They vanished together into the growing throng on the dance floor.

"Ah, they are together now?" asked Krum, momentarily distracted.

"Er- sort of," said Harry.

"Who are you?" Krum asked Abigail, who also looked quite flustered.

"Abigail Black. Pleased to meet you."

They shook hands, his big, calloused ones carefully handling her smaller, gentler ones.

"Harry-" Krum said, turning back to him- "you know this man Lovegood well?"

"No, I only met him today. Why?"

Krum glowered over the top of his drink, watching Xenophilius, who was chatting to several warlocks on the other side of the dance floor.

"Because," said Krum, "If he vus not a guest of Fleur's I vould dud him, here and now, for veering that filthy sign upon his chest."

"Sign?" said Harry, looking over at Xenophilius too. The strange triangular eye was gleaming on his chest. "Why? What's wrong with it?"

"Grindelvald. That is Grindelvald's sign."

"Grindelwald... the Dark wizard Dumbledore defeated?" Abigail asked, eying the sign as well.

"Exactly."

Krum's jaw muscles worked as if he were chewing, then he said, "Grindelvald killed many people, my grandfather, for instance. Of course, he vos never powerful in this country, they said he feared Dumbledore- and rightly, seeing how he vos finished. But this"- he pointed a finger at Xenophilius- "this is his symbol, I recognized it at vunce: Grindelvald carved it into a vall at Durmstrang ver he vos a pupil there. Some idiots copied it onto their books and clothes thinking to shock, make themselves impressive- until those of us who had lost family members to Grindelvald taught them better."

Krum cracked his knuckles menacingly and glowered at Xenophilius. Abigail watched him warily, sipping at her Butterbeer. Harry felt perplexed. It seemed incredibly unlikely that Luna's father was a supporter of the Dark Arts, and nobody else in the tent seemed to have recognized the triangular, finlike shape.

"Are you- er- quite sure it's Grindelwald's -?"

"I am not mistaken," said Krum coldly. "I walked past that sign for several years, I know it vell."

"Well, there's a chance," said Abigail, jumping in, "that Xenophilius doesn't actually know what the symbol means, the Lovegoods are quite... unusual. He could have easily picked it up somewhere and think it's a cross section of the head of a Crumple-Horned Snorkack or something."

"The cross section of a vot?"

"Well, I don't know what they are, but apparently he and his daughter go on holiday looking for them..."

Harry felt she was doing a bit of a bad job explaining Luna and her father.

"That's her," Harry said, pointing at Luna, who was still dancing alone, waving her arms around her head like someone attempting to beat off midges.

"Vy is she doing that?" asked Krum.

"Probably trying to get rid of a Wrackspurt," said Harry, who recognized the symptoms.

Krum did not seem to know whether or not Harry was making fun of him. He drew his wand from inside his robe and tapped it menacingly on his thighs; sparks flew out of the end.

"Gregorovitch!" said Harry loudly, and Abigail and Krum started, but Harry was too excited to care; the memory had come back to him at the sight of Krum's wand: Ollivander taking it and examining it carefully before the Triwizard Tournament.

"Vot about him?" asked Krum suspiciously.

"He's a wandmaker!"

"I know that," said Krum.

"He made your wand! That's why I thought- Quidditch-"

Krum was looking more and more suspicious. Abigail was watching Harry carefully, looking quite concerned.

"How do you know Gregorovitch made my wand?"

"I remember Ollivander telling us," said Harry. "When he examined our wands during the Triwizard Tournament." Krum looked almost mollified.

"I see," he said slowly.

"So... er... where is Gregorovitch these days?"

Krum looked puzzled.

"He retired several years ago. I was one of the last to purchase a Gregorovitch vand. They are the best- although I know, of course, that your Britons set much store by Ollivander."

Harry did not answer. He pretended to watch the dancers, like Krum, while Abigail peered at him, but he was thinking hard. So Voldemort was looking for a celebrated wandmaker and Harry did not have to search far for a reason. It was surely because of what Harry' wand had done on the night that Voldemort pursued him across the skies. The holly and phoenix feather wand had conquered the borrowed wand, some thing that Ollivander had not anticipated or understood. Would Gregorowitch know better? Was he truly more skilled than Ollivander, did he know secrets of wands that Ollivander did not?

"This girl is very nice-looking," Krum said, recalling Harry to his surroundings. Krum was pointing at Ginny, who had just joined Luna. "She is also a friend of yours?"

"Yeah," said Harry, "but she's seeing someone," he said, noting the presence of Dean Thomas across the room that he had missed before. "Jealous type. Big bloke. You wouldn't want to cross him."

Krum grunted.

"Vot," he said, draining his goblet, "is the point of being an international Quidditch player if all the good-looking girls are taken?"

He looked at Abigail then, who was taking another sip of her drink. "Vhat about you?"

She started, choking a little on her sip. She coughed a moment, drawing in a deep breath.

"S- sorry?" She asked, clearing her throat from the Butterbeer.

"Are you vith anyvone?" Krum asked. Unanticipated irritation crept up the back of Harry's neck.

"Oh, um, yes, yes I am actually," she said, not looking at Harry. "Sorry."

Krum grunted again. "Vould you still like to dance?"

She flushed. "Oh- oh, well I-"

She was cut off suddenly as Ginny appeared and grabbed her arm, then pulled her away forcefully onto the dance floor toward Luna. Harry caught a last look at her face before she disappeared into the throng of the crowd; she looked extremely relieved.

With a final, loud huff, Krum stood stiffly and strode off, leaving Harry to take a sandwich from a passing waiter and make his way around the edge of the crowded dance floor. He wanted to find Ron, to tell him about Gregorovitch, but he was dancing with Hermione out in the middle of the floor. Harry leaned up against one of the golden pillars and watched Abigail and Ginny, who were now dancing with Dean and Lee Jordan, trying not to feel resentful about the promise he had given Ron as he watched Lee spin Abigail around gleefully.

He had never been to a wedding before, so he could not judge how Wizarding celebrations differed from Muggle ones, though he was pretty sure that the latter would not involve a wedding cake topped with two model phoenixes that took flight when the cake was cut, or bottles of champagne that floated unsupported through the crowd. As the evening drew in, and moths began to swoop under the canopy, now lit with floating golden lanterns, the revelry became more and more uncontained. Fred and George had long since disappeared into the darkness with a pair of Fleur's cousins; Charlie, Hagrid, and a squat wizard in a purple porkpie hat were singing "Odo the Hero" in the corner.

Wandering through the crowd so as to escape a drunken uncle of Ron's, who seemed strangely unsure whether or not Harry was his son, Harry spotted an old wizard sitting alone at a table. His cloud of white hair made him look rather like an aged dandelion clock and was topped by a moth-eaten fez. He was vaguely familiar: Racking his brains, Harry suddenly realized that this was Elphias Doge, member of the Order of the Phoenix and the writer of Dumbledore's obituary.

Harry approached him.

"May I sit down?"

"My dear boy! Of course, Mr. Potter, of course!" Doge exclaimed happily; he had a rather high-pitched, wheezy voice. "Arthur told me you were here... I am so glad, so honored to meet you!"

In a flutter of nervous pleasure Doge poured Harry a goblet of champagne.

"I thought of writing to you," he whispered, "after Dumbledore... the shock... and for you, I am sure..."

Doge's tiny eyes filled with sudden tears.

"I saw the obituary you wrote for the Daily Prophet," said Harry. "I didn't realize you knew Professor Dumbledore so well."

"As well as anyone," said Doge, dabbing his eyes with a napkin. "Certainly I knew him longest, if you don't count Aberforth- and somehow, people never do seem to count Aberforth."

"Speaking of the Daily Prophet... I don't know whether you saw, Mr. Doge -?"

"Oh, please call me Elphias, dear boy."

"Elphias, I don't know whether you saw the interview Rita Skeeter gave about Dumbledore?"

Doge's face flooded with angry color.

"Oh yes, Harry, I saw it. That woman, or vulture might be a more accurate term, positively pestered me to talk to her, I am ashamed to say that I became rather rude, called her an interfering trout, which resulted, as you my have seen, in aspersions cast upon my sanity."

"Well, in that interview," Harry went on, "Rita Skeeter hinted that Professor Dumbledore was involved in the Dark Arts when he was young."

"Don't believe a word of it!" said Doge at once. "Not a word, Harry! Let nothing tarnish your memories of Albus Dumbledore!"

Harry looked into Doge's earnest, pained face, and felt, not reassured, but frustrated. Did Doge really think it was that easy, that Harry could simply choose not to believe? Didn't Doge understand Harry's need to be sure, to know everything?

Perhaps Doge suspected Harry's feelings, for he looked concerned and hurried on, "Harry, Rita Skeeter is a dreadful-"

But he was interrupted by a shrill cackle.

"Rita Skeeter? Oh, I love her, always read her!"

Harry and Doge looked up to see Auntie Muriel standing there, the plumes dancing on her hair, a goblet of champagne in her hand. "She's written a book about Dumbledore, you know!"

"Hello, Muriel," said Doge, "Yes, we were just discussing-"

"You there! Give me your chair, I'm a hundred and seven!"

A redheaded Weasley cousin jumped off his seat, looking alarmed, and Auntie Muriel swung it around with surprising strength and plopped herself down upon it between Doge and Harry.

"Hello again," she said to Harry, "Now what were you saying about Rita Skeeter, Elphias? You know, she's written a biography of Dumbledore? I can't wait to read it. I must remember to place an order at Flourish and Blotts!"

Doge looked stiff and solemn at this but Auntie Muriel drained her goblet and clicked her bony fingers at a passing waiter for a replacement. She took another large gulp of champagne, belched and then said, "There's no need to look like a pair of stuffed frogs! Before he became so respected and respectable and all that tosh, there were some mighty funny rumors about Albus!"

"Ill-informed sniping," said Doge, turning radish-colored again.

"You would say that, Elphias," cackled Auntie Muriel. "I noticed how you skated over the sticky patches in that obituary of yours!"

"I'm sorry you think so," said Doge, more coldly still. "I assure you I was writing from the heart."

"Oh, we all know you worshipped Dumbledore; I daresay you'll still think he was a saint even if it does turn out that he did away with his Squib sister!"

"Muriel!" exclaimed Doge.

A chill that had nothing to do with the iced champagne was stealing through Harry's chest.

"What do you mean?" he asked Muriel. "Who said his sister was a Squib? I thought she was ill?"

"Thought wrong, then, didn't you, Barry!" said Auntie Muriel, looking delighted at the effect she had produced. "Anyway, how could you expect to know anything about it! It all happened years and years before you were even thought of, my dear, and the truth is that those of us who were alive then never knew what really happened. That's why I can't wait to find out what Skeeter's unearthed! Dumbledore kept that sister of his quiet for a long time!"

"Untrue!" wheezed Doge, "Absolutely untrue!"

"He never told me his sister was a Squib," said Harry, without thinking, still cold inside.

"And why on earth would he tell you?" screeched Muriel, swaying a little in her seat as she attempted to focus upon Harry.

"The reason Albus never spoke about Ariana," began Elphias in a voice stiff with emotion, "is, I should have thought, quite clear. He was so devastated by her death-"

"Why did nobody ever see her, Elphias?" squawked Muriel, "Why did half of us never even know she existed, until they carried the coffin out of the house and held a funeral for her? Where was saintly Albus while Ariana was locked in the cellar? Off being brilliant at Hogwarts, and never mind what was going on in his own house!"

"What d'you mean, locked in the cellar?" asked Harry. "What is this?"

Doge looked wretched. Auntie Muriel cackled again and answered Harry.

"Dumbledore's mother was a terrifying woman, simply terrifying. Muggle-born, though I heard she pretended otherwise-"

"She never pretended anything of the sort! Kendra was a fine woman," whispered Doge miserably, but Auntie Muriel ignored him.

"- proud and very domineering, the sort of witch who would have been mortified to produce a Squib-"

"Ariana was not a Squib!" wheezed Doge.

"So you say, Elphias, but explain, then, why she never attended Hogwarts!" said Auntie Muriel. She turned back to Harry. "In our day, Squibs were often hushed up, thought to take it to the extreme of actually imprisoning a little girl in the house and pretending she didn't exist-"

"I tell you, that's not what happened!" said Doge, but Auntie Muriel steamrollered on, still addressing Harry.

"Squibs were usually shipped off to Muggle schools and encouraged to integrate into the Muggle community... much kinder than trying to find them a place in the Wizarding world, where they must always be second class, but naturally Kendra Dumbledore wouldn't have dreamed of letting her daughter go to a Muggle school-"

"Ariana was delicate!" said Doge desperately. "Her health was always too poor to permit her-"

"- to permit her to leave the house?" cackled Muriel. "And yet she was never taken to St. Mungo's and no Healer was ever summoned to see her!"

"Really, Muriel, how can you possibly know whether-"

"For your information, Elphias, my cousin Lancelot was a Healer at St. Mungo's at the time, and he told my family in strictest confidence that Ariana had never been seen there. All most suspicious, Lancelot thought!"

Doge looked to be on the verge of tears. Auntie Muriel, who seemed to be enjoying herself hugely, snapped her fingers for more champagne. Numbly Harry thought of how the Dursleys had once shut him up, locked him away, kept him out of sight, all for the crime of being a wizard. Had Dumbledore's sister suffered the same fate in reverse: imprisoned for her lack of magic? And had Dumbledore truly left her to her fate while he went off to Hogwarts to prove himself brilliant and talented?

"Now, if Kendra hadn't died first," Muriel resumed, "I'd have said that it was she who finished off Ariana-"

"How can you, Muriel!" groaned Doge. "A mother kill her own daughter? Think what you're saying!"

"If the mother in question was capable of imprisoning her daughter for years on end, why not?" shrugged Auntie Muriel. "But as I say, it doesn't fit, because Kendra died before Ariana- of what, nobody ever seemed sure-"

"Yes, Ariana might have made a desperate bid for freedom and killed Kendra in the struggle," said Auntie Muriel thoughtfully. "Shake your head all you like, Elphias. You were at Ariana's funeral, were you not?"

"Yes I was," said Doge, through trembling lips, "and a more desperately sad occasion I cannot remember. Albus was heartbroken-"

"His heart wasn't the only thing. Didn't Aberforth break Albus' nose halfway through the service?"

If Doge had looked horrified before this, it was nothing to how he looked now. Muriel might have stabbed him. She cackled loudly and took another swig of champagne, which dribbled down her chin.

"How do you -?" croaked Doge.

"My mother was friendly with old Bathilda Bagshot," said Auntie Muriel happily. "Bathilda described the whole thing to mother while I was listening at the door. A coffin-side brawl. The way Bathilda told it, Aberforth shouted that it was all Albus' fault that Ariana was dead and then punched him in the face. According to Bathilda, Albus did not even defend himself, and that's odd enough in itself. Albus could have destroyed Aberforth in a duel with both hands tied behind his back."

Muriel swigged yet more champagne. The recitation of those old scandals seemed to elate her as much as they horrified Doge. Harry did not know what to think, what to believe. He wanted the truth and yet all Doge did was sit there and bleat feebly that Ariana had been ill. Harry could hardly believe that Dumbledore would not have intervened if such cruelty was happening inside his own house, and yet there was undoubtedly something odd about the story.

"And I'll tell you something else," Muriel said, hiccupping slightly as she lowered her goblet. "I think Bathilda has spilled the beans to Rita Skeeter. All those hints in Skeeter's interview about an important source close to the Dumbledores- goodness knows she was there all through the Ariana business, and it would fit!"

"Bathilda, would never talk to Rita Skeeter!" whispered Doge.

"Bathilda Bagshot?" Harry said. "The author of _A History of Magic_?"

The name was printed on the front of one of Harry's textbooks, though admittedly not one of the ones he had read more attentively.

"Yes," said Doge, clutching at Harry's question like a drowning man at a life heir. "A most gifted magical historian and an old friend of Albus's."

"Quite gaga these days, I've heard," said Auntie Muriel cheerfully.

"If that is so, it is even more dishonorable for Skeeter to have taken advantage of her," said Doge, "and no reliance can be placed on anything Bathilda may have said!"

"Oh, there are ways of bringing back memories, and I'm sure Rita Skeeter knows them all," said Auntie Muriel "But even if Bathilda's completely cuckoo, I'm sure she'd still have old photographs, maybe even letters. She knew the Dumbledores for years... Well worth a trip to Godric's Hollow, I'd have thought."

Harry, who had been taking a sip of butterbeer, choked. Doge banged him on the back as Harry coughed, looking at Auntie Muriel through streaming eyes. Once he had control of his voice again, he asked, "Bathilda Bagshot lives in Godric's Hollow?"

"Oh yes, she's been there forever! The Dumbledores moved there after Percival was imprisoned, and she was their neighbor."

"The Dumbledores lived in Godric's Hollows?"

"Yes, Mr. Potter, that's what I just said," said Auntie Muriel testily.

Harry felt drained, empty. Never once, in six years, had Dumbledore told Harry that they had both lived and lost loved ones in Godric's Hollow. Why? Were Lily and James buried close to Dumbledore's mother and sister? Had Dumbledore visited their graves, perhaps walked past Lily's and James's to do so? And he had never once told Harry ... never bothered to say...

And why it was so important, Harry could not explain even to himself, yet he felt it had been tantamount to a lie not to tell him that they had this place and these experiences in common. He stared ahead of him, barely noticing what was going on around him, and did not realize that Hermione had appeared out of the crowd until she drew up a chair beside him.

"I simply can't dance anymore," she panted, slipping of one of her shoes and rubbing the sole of her foot. "Ron's gone looking to find more butterbeers. It's a bit odd. I've just seen Viktor storming away from Luna's father, it looked like they'd been arguing-" She dropped her voice, staring at him. "Harry, are you okay?"

Harry did not know where to begin, but it did not matter; at that moment, something large and silver came falling through the canopy over the dance floor. Graceful and gleaming, the lynx landed lightly in the middle of the astonished dancers. Heads turned, as those nearest it froze absurdly in mid-dance. Then the Patronus's mouth opened wide and it spoke in the loud, deep, slow voice of Kingsley Shacklebolt.

_"The Ministry has fallen. Scrimgeour is dead. They are coming."_

**Sooooo, besides the fact that I'm sick :) And I'm also going away this weekend, I decided to post this a couple of days early! Yay!**

**I actually finished this a couple of days ago, so I was pretty proud of myself with all my last minute pre-Christmas projects I was simoultaneously doing :P And in a couple of weeks, it'll be post-Christmas exams! *sobs***

**Anyway, I hope you all have a super awesome fantasical magical Christmas! :) Christmas is one of my favorite times of year, even with the tragedy that struck Conneticut just days ago. It's been hard on all of us, as a country, even those of us who never knew anyone in the shooting. God bless the families of the victims and lay grace upon their souls.**

**That was a bit downing :/ Sorry about that.**

**Anyway, I hope you all have a wonderful rest of 2012 (the end is near! XD), and I'll see you in 2013 (!) for our next update :))) Remember to review!**

**Next Update: 1/5/13**


	7. Chapter 7

How Three Became Four

**BUM BUM BUM! :) Here we are readers, at the third and final book of the How Three Became Four series! I can't believe we've finally made it! I hope you're all excited! After the actionated, romanticised, wild adventures of Harry's sixth year, we now come to what would be his seventh, if not, per say, he was going on quite the interesting adventure ;) There will be even more action, excitement, and a lot more romance! We all love our new little addition to Harry's life! :) Like the first and second books, the story will consist of a mushed versiony-thingy of the seventh Harry Potter book and the seventh Harry Potter movie. I hope that you enjoy our "home-stretch story", and I hope you keep reviewing for me :) Ready? Set? Action.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or anything included or endorsed by Warner Brothers or J.K. Rowling :) I think that about covers it.**

7) A Place To Hide

Everything seemed fuzzy, slow. Harry and Hermione jumped to their feet and drew their wands. Many people were only just realizing that something strange had happened; heads were still turning toward the silver cat as it vanished. Silence spread outward in cold ripples from the place where the Patronus had landed. Then somebody screamed.

Harry and Hermione threw themselves into the panicking crowd. Guests were sprinting in all directions; many were Disapparating; the protective enchantments around the Burrow had broken.

"Ron!" Hermione cried. "Ron, where are you?"

"Abbie!" Harry called. _"Abbie!"_

As they pushed their way across the dance floor, Harry saw cloaked and masked figures appearing in the crowd; then he saw Lupin and Tonks, their wands raised, and heard both of them shout, _"Protego!", _a cry that was echoed on all sides-

"Ron! Ron!" Hermione called, half sobbing as she and Harry were buffered by terrified guests: Harry seized her hand to make sure they weren't separated as a streak of light whizzed over their heads, whether a protective charm or something more sinister he did not know-

And then Ron was there, dashing toward them through the chaos with a tight grip on Abigail's hand, in stride with him as he sprinted toward Harry and Hermione. He caught hold of Hermione's free arm, and Harry felt her turn on the spot; sight and sound were extinguished as darkness pressed in upon him; all he could feel was Hermione's hand as he was squeezed through space and time, away from the Burrow, away from the descending Death Eaters, away, perhaps, from Voldemort himself...

"Where are we?" said Ron's voice.

Harry opened his eyes. For a moment he thought they had not left the wedding after all; They still seemed to be surrounded by people.

"Tottenham Court Road," panted Hermione. "Walk, just walk, we need to find somewhere for you to change."

Harry did as she asked. They half walked, half ran up the wide dark street thronged with late-night revelers and lined with closed shops, stars twinkling above them. Abigail grabbed Harry's hand as they moved quickly along the road, and he squeezed it as they went. A double-decker bus rumbled by and a group of merry pub-goers ogled them as they passed; Harry and Ron were still wearing dress robes.

"Hermione, we haven't got anything to change into," Ron told her, as a young woman burst into raucous giggles at the sight of him.

"Why didn't I make sure I had the Invisibility Cloak with me?" said Harry, inwardly cursing his own stupidity. "All last year I kept it on me and-"

"It's okay, I've got the Cloak, I've got clothes for both of you," said Hermione, "Just try and act naturally until- this will do."

She led them down a side street, then into the shelter of a shadowy alleyway.

"When you say you've got the Cloak, and clothes..." said Harry, frowning at Hermione, who was carrying nothing except her small beaded handbag, in which she was now rummaging.

"Yes, they're here," said Hermione, and to Harry and Ron's utter astonishment, she pulled out a pair of jeans, a sweatshirt, some maroon socks, and finally the silvery Invisibility Cloak.

"How the ruddy hell-?"

"Undetectable Extension Charm," said Abigail as she opened Hermione's bag wider and shoved her own hands inside to assist Hermione in her search.

"Tricky, but I think I've done it okay," Hermione went on. "Anyway, I managed to fit everything we need in here." Letting Abigail pull her hands away, a bundle clumped in her arms, Hermione gave the fragile-looking bag a little shake and it echoed like a cargo hold as a number of heavy objects rolled around inside it. "Oh, damn, that'll be the books," she said, peering into it, "and I had them all stacked by subject... Oh well..."

"Here, Harry," Abigail said, holding out a lump of clothes to him. "Both of you, hurry up and change..."

"When did you do all this?" Harry asked as they stripped off their robes.

"I told you at the Burrow, we've-" Hermione gestured to herself and Abigail as the latter dove back into the bag for their own clothes- "had the essentials packed for days, you know, in case we needed to make a quick getaway. I packed your rucksack this morning, Harry, after you changed, and put it in here... I just had a feeling..."

"You're amazing, you are," said Ron, tugging on a green sweater.

"Thank you," said Hermione, managing a small smile as Abigail passed her her clothes and threw Harry's and Ron's dress robes back into the beaded bag. "Step out if you're done, if you will, so Abbie and I can change-"

"The others- everybody at the wedding-" Harry started, tying his trainers.

"We can't worry about that now," whispered Hermione. "It's you they're after, Harry, and we'll just put everyone in even more danger by going back."

"She's right," said Abigail, who seemed to know that Harry was about to argue, even if she could barely see his face. "Most of the Order was there, they'll look after everyone. Now come on, both of you, step out a minute, we'll be right there-"

Harry nodded, then remembered that they could not see him, and said, "Yeah." But he thought of everyone, and fear bubbled like acid in his stomach.

Harry and Ron stayed silent as the girls quickly changed, facing out from the alley, nervously watching the people around them, as if Death Eaters were bound to jump out and attack them at any time.

"Come on, I think we ought to keep moving," said Hermione, tucking dresses and shoes away into her bag as the girls walked up to them.

Stepping away from the alley, they moved back up the side street and onto the main road again, where a group of men on the opposite side was singing and weaving across the pavement.

"Just as a matter of interest, why Tottenham Court Road?" Ron asked Hermione.

"I've no idea, it just popped into my head, but I'm sure we're safer out in the Muggle world, it's not where they'll expect us to be."

"True," said Ron, looking around, "but don't you feel a bit- exposed?"

"Where else is there?" asked Hermione, cringing as the men on the other side of the road started wolf-whistling at her. "We can hardly book rooms at the Leaky Cauldron, can we? And Grimmauld Place is out if Snape can get in there... I suppose we could try my parents' home, though I think there's a chance they might check there... Oh, I wish they'd shut up!"

"All right, darling?" the drunkest of the men on the other pavement was yelling. "Fancy a drink? Ditch ginger and come and have a pint!"

"Let's sit down somewhere," Abigail said hastily as Hermione went pale and Ron opened his mouth to shout back across the road. "Look, this will do, in here!"

It was a small and shabby all-night café A light layer of grease lay on all the Formica-topped tables, but it was at least empty. Harry slipped into a booth first and Ron sat next to him opposite Hermione and Abigail, who had their backs to the entrance. Hermione most obviously did not like it: She glanced over her shoulder so frequently she appeared to have a twitch. Harry did not like being stationary; walking had given the illusion that they had a goal.

After a minute or two, Ron said, "You know, we're not far from the Leaky Cauldron here, it's only in Charing Cross-"

"Ron, we can't!" said Hermione at once.

"Not to stay there, but to find out what's going on!"

"We know what's going on! Voldemort's taken over the Ministry, what else do we need to know?"

"Okay, okay, it was just an idea!"

"Hermione," said Abigail, squeezing the other woman's shoulder. Hermione let out a tense breath.

They relapsed into a prickly silence. The gum-chewing waitress shuffled over and Hermione ordered four cappuccinos. A pair of burly workmen entered the café and squeezed into the next booth. Hermione dropped her voice to a whisper.

"I say we find a quiet place to Disapparate and head for the countryside. Once we're there, we could send a message to the Order."

"Can you do that talking Patronus thing, then?" asked Ron.

"I've been practicing and I think so," said Hermione.

"Well, as long as it doesn't get them into trouble, though they might've been arrested already. God, that's revolting," Ron added after one sip of the foamy, grayish coffee. The waitress had heard; she shot Ron a nasty look as she shuffled off to take the new customers' orders. The larger of the two workmen, who was blond and quite huge, now that Harry came to look at him, waved her away. She stared, affronted.

"Let's get going, then, I don't want to drink this muck," said Ron. "Hermione, have you got Muggle money to pay for this?"

"Yes, I took out all my Building Society savings before I came to the Burrow. I'll bet all the change is at the bottom," sighed Hermione, reaching for her beaded bag.

The two workmen made identical movements, and Harry mirrored them without conscious thought: All three of them drew their wands. Ron, a few seconds late in realizing what was going on, lunged across the table, pushing Hermione into Abigail, who were both forced sideways onto the bench. The force of the Death Eaters' spells shattered the tiled wall where Ron's head had just been, as Harry yelled, _"Stupefy!"_

The great blond Death Eater was hit in the face by a jet of red light: He slumped sideways, unconscious. His companion, ducking behind a table, fired again at Ron: Shining black ropes flew from his wand-tip and bound Ron head to foot- the waitress screamed and ran for the door- Harry sent another Stunning Spell at the Death Eater with the twisted face who had tied up Ron, but the spell missed, rebounded on the window, and hit the waitress, who collapsed in front of the door.

_"Expulso!"_ bellowed the Death Eater, and the table behind which Harry was standing blew up: The force of the explosion slammed him into the wall and he felt his wand leave his hand.

_"Reducto!" _Abigail shouted, firing at the table guarding the Death Eater. The man jumped sideways as the table broke, sending large, sharp shards flying. Abigail shouted another Reductor Curse, and the man jumped aside once more as a chunk of floor where he had just been burst.

_"Incendio!" _the Death Eater howled, and Abigail shrieked painstakingly as the table burst into flames, the blaze erupting right into her face. She fell sideways, landing on the floor covered with shards of the broken shop.

_"Abbie!"_ Harry shouted, struggling to pull himself off the floor as the fire flared.

_"Petrificus Totalus!"_ cried Hermione from out of sight, and the Death Eater fell forward like a statue to land with a crunching thud on the mess of broken china, table, and coffee spread over the floor.

Hermione jumped up immediately then from underneath the bench, wand pointed at the burning table. _"Aquamenti!" _The generously-sized splash of water sizzled out the fire immediately, leaving only black smoke and the smell of burning wood in it's wake. She rushed over to Abigail then, who lay gently trembling on the floor.

Harry finally scrambled up, grabbing his wand as he hurried over the debris towards the other three. _"Diffindo,"_ he said, pointing his wand at Ron as he reached his best friend. The severed ropes fell away and Ron jumped to his feet, shaking his arms to regain feeling in them. They dashed hastily over to Hermione, who was helping Abigail into a sitting position; the latter was shaking with tears, and as her hair fell away from her face, they saw why.

"Oh God," Hermione muttered awfully as they finally caught sight of Abigail's face. A large portion of the left side was burned bright red, looking puffy, raw, and painful to the touch. Pained tears slid down her face, and she flinched as they ran across the burn.

"Can't you do anything?" Ron asked Hermione quickly. "Something to heal it?"

"Not here!" Hermione cried, alarmed and shaken. "We were just attacked! What's going on?!"

Harry, turning away from the distraught girls, his wand clutched tightly in his hand, climbed over all the debris to where the large blond Death Eater was sprawled on the floor. Ron followed him, and the girls, both looking quite pale, followed after him.

"I should've recognized him, he was there the night Dumbledore died," he said. He turned over the darker Death Eater with his foot; the man's eyes moved rapidly between Harry, Abigail, Ron, and Hermione.

"That's Dolohov," said Ron. "I recognize him from the old wanted posters. I think the big one's Thorfinn Rowle."

"Never mind what they're called!" said Hermione a little hysterically. "How did they find us? What are we going to do?"

Somehow her panic seemed to clear Harry's head.

"Lock the door," he told her, "and Ron, turn out the lights."

He looked down at the paralyzed Dolohov, thinking fast as the lock clicked and Ron used the Deluminator to plunge the café into darkness. Harry could hear the men who had jeered at Hermione earlier, yelling at another girl in the distance.

"What are we going to do with them?" Ron whispered to Harry through the dark; then, even more quietly, "Kill them? They'd kill us. They had a good go just now."

Abigail shuddered wordlessly and took a step backward. Harry shook his head.

"We just need to wipe their memories," said Harry. "It's better like that, it'll throw them off the scent. If we killed them it'd be obvious we were here."

"You're the boss," said Ron, sounding profoundly relieved. "But I've never done a Memory Charm."

"Nor have I," said Hermione, "I only know the theory."

Something prodded Harry in the shoulder, catching all of their attentions as Harry turned to look at his injured girlfriend. Dried tears on her face, her breath calmer than before, Abigail raised her hand.

"You can do it?" Ron asked, and she nodded silently in response.

Harry nodded to her, and stepped back, letting her come forward. She stepped up slowly, then took a deep, calming breath and pointed her wand at Dolohov's forehead. Barely moving her mouth, she whispered softly, _"Obliviate."_

At once, Dolohov's eyes became unfocused and dreamy.

"You're brilliant," said Harry lightly, patting Abigail gently on the shoulder; she said nothing, looking down at the Death Eater with an odd expression on her face.

Harry looked over at Hermione. "You two take care of the other one and the waitress while Ron and I clear up."

"Clear up?" said Ron, looking around at the partly destroyed café. "Why?"

"Don't you think they might wonder what's happened if they wake up and find themselves in a place that looks like it's just been bombed?"

"Oh right, yeah..."

Ron struggled for a moment before managing to extract his wand from his pocket.

"It's no wonder I can't get it out, Hermione, you packed my old jeans, they're tight."

"Oh, I'm so sorry," hissed Hermione, and as she dragged the waitress out of sight of the windows, Harry heard her mutter a suggestion as to where Ron could stick his wand instead.

Once the café was restored to its previous condition and Abigail had finished altering their memories, they heaved the Death Eaters back into their booth and propped them up facing each other. "But how did they find us?" Hermione asked, looking from one inert man to the other. "How did they know where we were?"

She turned to Harry.

"You- you don't think you've still got your Trace on you, do you, Harry?"

"He can't have," said Ron. "The Trace breaks at seventeen, that's Wizarding law, you can't put it on an adult."

"As far as you know," said Hermione. "What if the Death Eaters have found a way to put it on a seventeen-year-old?"

"But Harry hasn't been near a Death Eater in the last twenty-four hours. Who's supposed to have put a Trace back on him?"

Hermione did not reply. Harry felt contaminated, tainted: Was that really how the Death Eaters had found them?

"If I can't use magic, and you can't use magic near me, without us giving away our position-" he began.

"We're not splitting up!" said Hermione firmly. Abigail shook her head firmly in agreement.

"We need a safe place to hide," said Ron. "Give us time to think things through."

"Grimmauld Place," said Harry.

The other three gaped.

"Don't be silly, Harry, Snape can get in there!"

"Ron's dad said they've put up jinxes against him- and even if they haven't worked," he pressed on as Hermione began to argue "so what? I swear, I'd like nothing better than to meet Snape!"

"But-"

"Hermione, where else is there? It's the best chance we've got. Snape's only one Death Eater. If I've still got the Trace on me, we'll have whole crowds of them on us wherever else we go."

She could not argue, though she looked as if she would have liked to. While she unlocked the café door, Ron clicked the Deluminator to release the café's lights. Then, on Harry's count of three, they reversed the spells upon their three victims, and before the waitress or either of the Death Eaters could do more than stir sleepily, Harry, Abigail, Ron, and Hermione had turned on the spot and vanished into the compressing darkness once more.

Seconds later Harry's lungs expanded gratefully and he opened his eyes: They were now standing in the middle of a familiar small and shabby square. Tall, dilapidated houses looked down on them from every side. Number twelve was visible to them, for they had been told of its existence by Dumbledore, its Secret-Keeper, and they rushed toward it, checking every few yards that they were not being followed or observed. They raced up the stone steps, and Harry tapped the front door once with his wand. They heard a series of metallic clicks and the clatter of a chain, then the door swung open with a creak and they hurried over the threshold.

As Harry closed the door behind them, the old-fashioned gas lamps sprang into life, casting flickering light along the length of the hallway. It looked just as Harry remembered it: eerie, cobwebbed, the outlines of the house-elf heads on the wall throwing odd shadows up the staircase. Long dark curtains concealed the portrait of Sirius's mother. The only thing that was out of place was the troll's leg umbrella stand, which was lying on its side as if Tonks had just knocked it over again.

"I think somebody's been in here," Hermione whispered, pointing toward it.

"That could've happened as the Order left," Ron murmured back.

"So where are these jinxes they put up against Snape?" Harry asked.

"Maybe they're only activated if he shows up?" suggested Ron.

Yet they remained close together on the doormat, backs against the door, Abigail clutching at Harry's arm, all scared to move farther into the house.

"Well, we can't stay here forever," said Harry, and he took a step forward.  
_  
"Severus Snape?"_

Mad-Eye Moody's voice whispered out of the darkness, making all three of them jump back in fright. "We're not Snape!" croaked Harry, before something whooshed over him like cold air and his tongue curled backward on itself, making it impossible to speak. Before he had time to feel inside his mouth, however, his tongue had unraveled again.

The other three seemed to have experienced the same unpleasant sensation. Ron was making retching noises; Abigail took as deep a breath as she could without irritating her burn; Hermione stammered, "That m-must have b-been the T-Tongue-Tying Curse Mad-Eye set up for Snape!"

Gingerly Harry took another step forward. Something shifted in the shadows at the end of the hall, and before any of them could say another word, a figure had risen up out of the carpet, tall, dust-colored, and terrible; Hermione screamed and so did Mrs. Black, her curtains flying open; the gray figure was gliding toward them, faster and faster, its waist-length hair and beard streaming behind it, its face sunken, fleshless, with empty eye sockets: Horribly familiar, dreadfully altered, it raised a wasted arm, pointing at Harry.

"No!" Harry shouted, and though he had raised his wand no spell occurred to him. "No! It wasn't us! We didn't kill you-"

On the word _kill_, the figure exploded in a great cloud of dust: Coughing, his eyes watering, Harry looked around to see Hermione crouched on the floor by the door with her arms over her head. Abigail crouched shakily next to her, her arms wrapped tightly around Hermione, while Ron, who was trembling from head to foot, was patting her clumsily on the shoulder and saying, "It's all r-right... It's g-gone..."

Dust swirled around Harry like mist, catching the blue gaslight, as Mrs. Black continued to scream.

"Mudbloods, filth, stains of dishonor, taint of shame on the house of my fathers-"

"SHUT UP!" Harry bellowed, directing his wand at her, and with a bang and a burst of red sparks, the curtains swung shut again, silencing her.

"That... that was..." Hermione whimpered, as Ron helped her to her feet.

"Yeah," said Harry, "but it wasn't really him, was it? Just something to scare Snape."

Had it worked, Harry wondered, or had Snape already blasted the horror-figure aside as casually as he had killed the real Dumbledore? Nerves still tingling, he led the others up the hall, half-expecting some new terror to reveal itself, but nothing moved except for a mouse skittering along the skirting board.

"Before we go any farther, I think we'd better check," whispered Hermione, and she raised her wand and said, _"Homenum revelio."_

Nothing happened.

"Well, you've just had a big shock," said Ron kindly. "What was that supposed to do?"

"It did what I meant it to do!" said Hermione rather crossly. "That was a spell to reveal human presence, and there's nobody here except us!"

"And old Dusty," said Ron, glancing at the patch of carpet from which the corpse-figure had risen.

"Let's go up," said Hermione with a frightened look at the same spot, and she led the way up the creaking stairs to the drawing room on the first floor.

Hermione waved her wand to ignite the old gas lamps, then, shivering slightly in the drafty room, she perched on the sofa, her arms wrapped tightly around her. Abigail stood a bit awkwardly in the middle of the room, arms crossed, face expressionless. Ron crossed to the window and moved the heavy velvet curtains aside an inch.

"Can't see anyone out there," he reported. "And you'd think, if Harry still had a Trace on him, they'd have followed us here. I know they can't get in the house, but- what's up, Harry?"

Harry had given a cry of pain: His scar had burned against as something flashed across his mind like a bright light on water. He saw a large shadow and felt a fury that was not his own pound through his body, violent and brief as an electric shock.

"What did you see?" Ron asked, advancing on Harry. "Did you see him at my place?"

"No, I just felt anger- he's really angry-"

"But that could be at the Burrow," said Ron loudly. "What else? Didn't you see anything? Was he cursing someone?"

"Ron-" Abigail croaked weakly in a very hoarse voice, grabbing gently but firmly at his arm, putting herself slightly between the two, however he ignored her, watching Harry.

"No, I just felt anger- I couldn't tell- "

Harry felt badgered, confused, and Hermione did not help as she said in a frightened voice, "Your scar, again? But what's going on? I thought that connection had closed!"

"It did, for a while," muttered Harry; his scar was still painful, which made it hard to concentrate. "I- I think it's started opening again whenever he loses control, that's how it used to-"

"But then you've got to close your mind!" said Hermione shrilly. "Harry, Dumbledore didn't want you to use that connection, he wanted you to shut it down, that's why you were supposed to use Occlumency! Otherwise Voldemort can plant false images in your mind, remember-"

"Yeah, I do remember, thanks," said Harry through gritted teeth; he did not need Hermione to tell him that Voldemort had once used this selfsame connection between them to lead him into a trap, nor that it had resulted in Sirius's death. He wished that he had not told them what he had seen and felt; it made Voldemort more threatening, as though he were pressing against the window of the room, and still the pain in his scar was building and he fought it: It was like resisting the urge to be sick.

He turned his back on Abigail and Ron and Hermione, pretending to examine the old tapestry of the Black family tree on the wall. He felt Abigail's soft touch on his shoulder, and almost felt some sort of comfort from it, throughout these jumbled emotions running through him.

Then Hermione shrieked suddenly: Abigail's hand jerking backas he did, Harry drew his wand again and spun around to see a silver Patronus soar through the drawing room window and land upon the floor in front of them, where it solidified into the weasel that spoke with the voice of Ron's father.

_"Family safe, do not reply, we are being watched."_

The Patronus dissolved into nothingness. Ron let out a noise between a whimper and a groan and dropped onto the sofa: Hermione joined him, gripping his arm.

"They're all right, they're all right!" she whispered, and Ron half laughed and hugged her.

"Harry," he said over Hermione's shoulder, "I-"

"It's not a problem," said Harry, sickened by the pain in his head. "It's your family, 'course you were worried. I'd feel the same way." He thought of them, of Mr. and Mrs. Weasley and Fred and George and Bill and Ginny and Fleur. He looked carefully over at Abigail, who was watching him thoughtfully. "I do feel the same way."

The pain in his scar was reaching a peak, burning as it had back in the garden of the Burrow. Faintly he heard Hermione say "I don't want to be on my own. Could we use the sleeping bags I've brought and camp in here tonight?"

He heard Abigail, quietly, and Ron agree. He could not fight the pain much longer. He had to succumb.

"Bathroom," he muttered, and he left the room as fast as he could without running.

He barely made it: Bolting the door behind him with trembling hands, he grasped his pounding head and fell to the floor, then in an explosion of agony, he felt the rage that did not belong to him possess his soul, saw a long room lit only by firelight, and the giant blond Death Eater on the floor, screaming and writhing, and a slighter figure standing over him, wand outstretched, while Harry spoke in a high, cold, merciless voice.

"More, Rowle, or shall we end it and feed you to Nagini? Lord Voldemort is not sure that he will forgive this time... You called me back for this, to tell me that Harry Potter has escaped again? Draco, give Rowle another taste of our displeasure... Do it, or feel my wrath yourself!"

A log fell in the fire: Flames reared, their light darting across a terrified, pointed white face- with a sense of emerging from deep water, Harry drew heaving breaths and opened his eyes.

He was spread-eagled on the cold black marble floor, his nose inches from one of the silver serpent tails that supported the large bathtub. He sat up. Malfoy's gaunt, petrified face seemed burned on the inside of his eyes. Harry felt sickened by what he had seen, by the use to which Draco was now being put by Voldemort.

There was a sharp rap on the door, and Harry jumped as Hermione's voice rang out.

"Harry, do you want your toothbrush? I've got it here."

"Yeah, great, thanks," he said, fighting to keep his voice casual as he stood up to let her in.

**Sorry it took all day. Guard practice.**

***Unfortunatly, I am having semester exams for the next couple of weeks, so the update date may be a little sketchy. I apologize for any setbacks. Please remember to review.**

**Next Update: 1/19/13***


	8. Chapter 8

How Three Became Four

**BUM BUM BUM! :) Here we are readers, at the third and final book of the How Three Became Four series! I can't believe we've finally made it! I hope you're all excited! After the actionated, romanticised, wild adventures of Harry's sixth year, we now come to what would be his seventh, if not, per say, he was going on quite the interesting adventure ;) There will be even more action, excitement, and a lot more romance! We all love our new little addition to Harry's life! :) Like the first and second books, the story will consist of a mushed versiony-thingy of the seventh Harry Potter book and the seventh Harry Potter movie. I hope that you enjoy our "home-stretch story", and I hope you keep reviewing for me :) Ready? Set? Action.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or anything included or endorsed by Warner Brothers or J.K. Rowling :) I think that about covers it.**

8) Kreacher's Tale

Harry woke early the next morning, wrapped in a sleeping bag on the drawing room floor. A chink of sky was visible between the heavy curtains. It was the cool, clear blue of watered ink, somewhere between night and dawn, and everything was quiet except for Abigail, Ron, and Hermione's slow, deep breathing. Harry glanced over at Ron and Hermione and the dark shapes they made on the floor beside him. Ron had had a fit of gallantry and insisted that Abigail and Hermione sleep on the cushions from the sofas, so that their silhouettes were raised above the boys'. Hermione lay near Ron, and Abigail rested on the other side of Harry.

Observing Ron and Hermione, Harry noticed Hermione's arm curved to the floor, her fingers inches from Ron's, and Harry wondered whether they had fallen asleep holding hands.

He felt movement on his forehead, brushing the front of his hair, and, as he turned his head to the girl by his side, he realized that Abigail's fingers were resting on his brow as she slept. She breathed deeply in her sleep and shifted, her fingers moving across his hair again. A subtle warmth was left behind as her unconsious fingers drifted across his skin. He examined her face: Hermione had done her best, by book, to heal the burn across Abigail's face. It had not taken the burn away completely, but the puffy, pink tinge on her face was better than the flaming red of the original burn.

He looked up at the shadowy ceiling then, the cobwebbed chandelier. Less than twenty-four house ago, he had been standing in the sunlight at the entrance to the marquee, waiting to show in wedding guests. It seemed a lifetime away. What was going to happen now? He lay on the floor and he thought of the Horcruxes, of the daunting complex mission Dumbledore had left him... Dumbledore...

The grief that had possessed him since Dumbledore's death felt different now. The accusations he had heard from Muriel at the wedding seemed to have nested in his brain like diseased things, infecting his memories of the wizard he had idolized. Could Dumbledore have let such things happen? Had he been like Dudley, content to watch neglect and abuse as long as it did not affect him? Could he have turned his back on a sister who was being imprisoned and hidden?

Harry thought of Godric's Hollow, of graves Dumbledore had never mentioned there; he thought of mysterious objects left without explanation in Dumbledore's will, and resentment swelled in the darkness. Why hadn't Dumbledore told him? Why hadn't he explained? Had Dumbledore actually cared about Harry at all? Or had Harry been nothing more than a tool to be polished and honed, but not trusted, never confided in?

Harry could not stand lying there with nothing but bitter thoughts for company. Desperate for something to do, for distraction, he ever-so-gently moved Abigail's hand from his forehead, slipped out of his sleeping bag, picked up his wand, and crept out of the room. On the landing he whispered, _"Lumos," _and started to climb the stairs by wandlight.

On the second landing was the bedroom in which he and Ron had slept last time they had been here; he glanced into it. The wardrobe doors stood open and the bedclothes had been ripped back. Harry remembered the overturned troll leg downstairs. Somebody had searched the house since the Order had left. Snape? Or perhaps Mundungus, who had pilfered plenty from this house both before and after Sirius died? Harry's gaze wandered to the portrait that sometimes contained Phineas Nigellus Black, Sirius's great-great grandfather, but it was empty, showing nothing but a stretch of muddy backdrop. Phineas Nigellus was evidently spending the night in the headmaster's study at Hogwarts.

Harry continued up the stairs until he reached the topmost landing; there were three doors there. The one facing him bore a nameplate reading _Sirius_. Harry had never entered his godfather's bedroom before. He pushed open the door, holding his wand high to cast light as widely as possible. The room was spacious and must once have been handsome. There was a large bed with a carved wooden headboard, a tall window obscured by long velvet curtains and a chandelier thickly coated in dust with candle scrubs still resting in its sockets, solid wax hanging in frostlike drips. A fine film of dust covered the pictures on the walls and the bed's headboard; a spiders web stretched between the chandelier and the top of the large wooden wardrobe, and as Harry moved deeper into the room, he head a scurrying of disturbed mice.

The teenage Sirius had plastered the walls with so many posters and pictures that little of the wall's silvery-gray silk was visible. Harry could only assume that Sirius's parents had been unable to remove the Permanent Sticking Charm that kept them on the wall because he was sure they would not have appreciated their eldest son's taste in decoration. Sirius seemed to have long gone out of his way to annoy his parents. There were several large Gryffindor banners, faded scarlet and gold just to underline his difference from all the rest of the Slytherin family. There were many pictures of Muggle motorcycles, and also (Harry had to admire Sirius's nerve) several posters of bikini-clad Muggle girls. Harry could tell that they were Muggles because they remained quite stationary within their pictures, faded smiles and glazed eyes frozen on the paper. This was in contrast the only Wizarding photograph on the walls which was a picture of five Hogwarts students standing arm in arm, laughing at the camera.

With a leap of pleasure, Harry recognized his father, his untidy black hair stuck up at the back like Harry's, and he too wore glasses. Beside him was Sirius, carelessly handsome, his slightly arrogant face so much younger and happier than Harry had ever seen it alive. To Sirius's right stood Pettigrew, more than a head shorter, plump and watery-eyed, flushed with pleasure at his inclusion in this coolest of gangs, with the much-admired rebels that James and Sirius had been. On James's left was Lupin, even then a little shabby-looking, but he had the same air of delighted surprise at finding himself liked and included or was it simply because Harry knew how it had been, that he saw these things in the picture?

The fifth boy, grinning and chuckling on Lupin's left, had short, dark hair and a pair of sparkling, almond-shaped brown eyes, and Harry suddenly realized that it was Abigail's father, Derek, looking excited and- there was no other word for it- somewhat _bouncy. _A strange feeling went through Harry's body, but he didn't know quite how to describe it.

He tried to take it from the wall; it was his now, after all, Sirius had left him everything, but it would not budge. Sirius had taken no chances in preventing his parents from redecorating his room.

Harry looked around at the floor. The sky outside was growing brightest. A shaft of light revealed bits of paper, books, and small objects scattered over the carpet. Evidently Sirius's bedroom had been reached too, although its contents seemed to have been judged mostly, if not entirely, worthless. A few of the books had been shaken roughly enough to part company with the covers and sundry pages littered the floor.

Harry bent down, picked up a few of the pieces of paper, and examined them. He recognized one as a part of an old edition of _A History of Magic_, by Bathilda Bagshot, and another as belonging to a motorcycle maintenance manual. The third was handwritten and crumpled. He smoothed it out.

_Dear Padfoot,_

Thank you, thank you, for Harry's birthday present! It was his favorite by far. One year old and already zooming along on a toy broomstick, he looked so pleased with himself. I'm enclosing a picture so you can see. You know it only rises about two feet off the ground but he nearly killed the cat and he smashed a horrible vase Petunia sent me for Christmas (no complaints there). Of course James thought it was so funny, says he's going to be a great Quidditch player but we've had to pack away all the ornaments and make sure we don't take our eyes off him when he gets going.

We had a very quiet birthday tea, just us and old Bathilda who has always been sweet to us and who dotes on Harry. We were so sorry you couldn't come, but the Order's got to come first, and Harry's not old enough to know it's his birthday anyway! James is getting a bit frustrated shut up here, he tries not to show it but I can tell- also Dumbledore's still got his Invisibility Cloak, so no chance of little excursions. If you could visit, it would cheer him up so much. Wormy was here last weekend. I thought he seemed down, but that was probably the news about the McKinnons; I cried all evening when I heard.

Bathilda drops in most days, she's a fascinating old thing with the most amazing stories about Dumbledore. I'm not sure he'd be pleased if he knew! I don't know how much to believe, actually because it seems incredible that Dumbledore  
  
Harry's extremities seemed to have gone numb. He stood quite still, holding the miraculous paper in his nerveless fingers while inside him a kind of quiet eruptions sent joy and grief thundering its equal measure through his veins. Lurching to the bed, he sat down.

He read the letter again, but could not take in any more meaning than he had done the first time, and was reduced to staring at the handwriting itself. She had made her "g"s the same way he did. He searched through the letter for every one of them, and each felt like a friendly little wave glimpsed from behind a veil. The letter was an incredible treasure, proof that Lily Potter had lived, really lived, that her warm hand had once moved across this parchment, tracing ink into these letters, these words, words about him, Harry, her son.

Impatiently brushing away the wetness in his eyes, he reread the letter, this time concentrating on the meaning. It was like listening to a half-remembered voice.

They had a cat... perhaps it had perished, like his parents at Godric's Hollow... or else fled when there was nobody left to feed it... Sirius had bought him his first broomstick... His parents had known Bathilda Bagshot; had Dumbledore introduced them? Dumbledore's still got his Invisibility Cloak... there was something funny there...

Harry paused, pondering his mother's words. Why had Dumbledore taken James's Invisibility Cloak? Harry distinctly remembered his headmaster telling him years before, _"I don't need a cloak to become invisible." _Perhaps some less gifted Order member had needed its assistance, and Dumbledore had acted as a carrier? Harry passed on...

_Wormy was here..._ Pettigrew, the traitor, had seemed "down" had he? Was he aware that he was seeing James and Lily alive for the last time?

And finally Bathilda again, who told incredible stories about Dumbledore.

_It seems incredible that Dumbledore  
_  
That Dumbledore what? But there were any number of things that would seem incredible about Dumbledore; that he had once received bottom marks in a Transfiguration test, for instance or had taken up goat charming like Aberforth...

Harry got to his feet and scanned the floor: Perhaps the rest of the letter was here somewhere. He seized papers, treating them in his eagerness, with as little consideration as the original searcher, he pulled open drawers, shook out books, stood on a chair to run his hand over the top of the wardrobe, and crawled under the bed and armchair.

At last, lying facedown on the floor, he spotted what looked like a torn piece of paper under the chest of drawers. When he pulled it out, it proved to be most of the photograph that Lily had described in her letter. A black-haired baby was zooming in and out of the picture on a tiny broom, roaring with laughter, and a pair of legs that must have belonged to James was chasing after him. Harry tucked the photograph into his pocket with Lily's letter and continued to look for the second sheet.

After another quarter of an hour, however he was forced to conclude that the rest of his mother's letter was gone. Had it simply been lost in the sixteen years that had elapsed since it had been written, or had it been taken by whoever had searched the room? Harry read the first sheet again, this time looking for clues as to what might have made the second sheet valuable. His toy broomstick could hardly be considered interesting to the Death Eaters... The only potentially useful thing he could see her was possible information on Dumbledore.

_It seems incredible that Dumbledore_- what?

"Harry? Harry? _Harry!"_

"I'm here!" he called, "What's happened?"

There was a clatter of footsteps outside the door, and Hermione burst inside the room, closely followed by Abigail, both looking pale.

"We woke up and didn't know where you were!" Hermione said breathlessly. She turned and shouted over her shoulder, "Ron! We've found him!"

Ron's annoyed voice echoed distantly from several floors below.

"Good! Tell him from me he's a git!"

"Harry, don't just disappear, please, we were terrified! Why did you come up here anyway?" She gazed around the ransacked room.

"What have you been doing?" Abigail asked hoarsely, walking to his side.

"Look what I've just found-"

He held out his mother's letter. Abigail took it and read it while Hermione peered over her shoulder. When they reached the end of the page, they looked up at him.

"Oh Harry..." Hermione said gently.

"And there's this too-"

He handed Abigail the torn photograph and the girls smiled at the baby zooming in and out of sight on the toy broom.

"I've been looking for the rest of the letter," Harry said, "but it's not here."

Hermione glanced around.

"Did you make all this mess, or was some of it done when you got here?"

"Someone had searched before me," said Harry.

"I thought so," Abigail put in, her brow furrowed. "Every room we looked into on the way up had been disturbed."

"What were they after, do you think?" Hermione asked.

"Information on the Order, if it was Snape."

"But you'd think he'd already have all he needed. I mean was in the Order, wasn't he?"

"Well then," said Harry, keen to discuss his theory, "what about information on Dumbledore? The second page of the letter, for instance. You know this Bathilda my mum mentions, you know who she is?"

"Who?"

"Bathilda Bagshot, the author of-"

_"A History of Magic_," said Abigail, her eyes widening.

"So your parents knew her? She was an incredible magic historian." Hermione said, looking interested.

"And she's still alive," said Harry, "and she lives in Godric's Hollow. Ron's Auntie Muriel was talking about her at the wedding. She knew Dumbledore's family too. Be pretty interesting to talk to, wouldn't she?"

Abigail threw him a calculating look, studying him. There was too much understanding in the smile Hermione gave him for Harry's liking. He took back the letter and the photograph from Abigail, who was still watching him carefully, and tucked them inside the pouch around his neck, so as not to have to look at them and give himself away more than he already had.

"I understand why you'd love to talk to her about your mum and dad, and Dumbledore too," said Hermione. "But that wouldn't really help us in our search for the Horcruxes, would it?"

Harry did not answer, and she rushed on, "Harry, I know you really want to go to Godric's Hollow, but I'm scared. I'm scared at how easily those Death Eaters found us yesterday. It just makes me feel more than ever that we ought to avoid the place where your parents are buried, I'm sure they'd be expecting you to visit it."

"It's not just that," Abigail said quietly, and Harry could almost feel her gaze burning a hole through his head, "is it?"

"... No," Harry confirmed stiffly, still avoiding looking at her, "Muriel said stuff about Dumbledore at the wedding. I want to know the truth..."

He told them everything that Muriel had told him. When he had finished, Hermione said, "Of course, I can see why that's upset you, Harry-"

"I'm not upset-" he lied.

Abigail interrupted. "Oh, Harry, please don't lie to-"

"I'm not upset," he said more forcefully, cutting her off. "I'd just like to know whether or not it's true or-"

"Harry do you really think you'll get the truth from a malicious old woman like Muriel, or from Rita Skeeter? How can you believe them? You knew Dumbledore!"

"I thought I did," he muttered.

"But you know how much truth there was in everything Rita wrote about you!" Hermione protested. "Doge is right, how can you let these people tarnish your memories of Dumbledore?"

He looked away, trying not to betray the resentment he felt. There it was again: Choose what to believe. He wanted the truth. Why was everybody so determined that he should not get it?

"Shall we go down to the kitchen?" Hermione suggested after a little pause, leading them out of the room to the landing. "Find something for breakfast?"

_Do Not Enter Without the Express Permission of Regulus Arcturus Black_

Excitement trickled through Harry, but he was not immediately sure why. He read the sign again. Abigail and Hermione was already a flight of stairs below him.

"Hey, hey, guys," he said, and he was surprised that his voice was so calm. "Come back up here."

"What's the matter?"

"R.A.B. I think I've found him."

There was a gasp, and then Abigail bolted back up the stairs, Hermione alongside.

"In your mum's letter? But I didn't see-"

Harry shook his head, pointing at Regulus's sign. They read it, then Abigail clutched Harry's arm so tightly that he winced.

"Sirius's brother?" Hermione whispered. Her eyes were the size of small dinner plates.

"He was a Death Eater," said Harry. "Sirius told me about him, he joined up when he was really young and then got cold feet and tried to leave- so they killed him."

"That fits!" gasped Hermione. "If he was a Death Eater he had access to Voldemort!"

"And if he became disenchanted-" Abigail went on, looking stunned.

"-then he would have wanted to bring Voldemort down!" Hermione finished the thought.

She quickly leaned over the banister, and screamed, "Ron! RON! Get up here, quick!"

Ron appeared, panting, a minute later, his wand ready in his hand.

"What's up? If it's massive spiders again I want breakfast before I-"

He frowned at the sign on Regulus's door, in which Hermione was silently pointing.

"What? That was Sirius's brother, wasn't it? Regulus Arcturus ... Regulus ... R.A.B.! The locket- you don't reckon-?"

"Let's find out," said Harry. He pushed the door: It was locked. Hermione pointed her wand at the handle and said, _"Alohamora." _There was a click, and the door swung open.

They moved over the threshold together, gazing around. Regulus's bedroom was slightly smaller than Sirius's, though it had the same sense of former grandeur. Whereas Sirius had sought to advertise his diffidence from the rest of the family, Regulus had striven to emphasize the opposite. The Slytherin colors of emerald and silver were everywhere, draping the bed, the walls, and the windows. The Black family crest was painstakingly painted over the bed, along with its motto, _TOUJOURS PUR_. Beneath this was a collection of yellow newspaper cuttings, all stuck together to make a ragged collage. Hermione crossed the room to examine them.

"They're all about Voldemort," she said. "Regulus seems to have been a fan for a few years before he joined the Death Eaters..."

A little puff of dust rose from the bedcovers as she sat down to read the clippings. Harry, meanwhile, had noticed another photograph: a Hogwarts Quidditch team was smiling and waving out of the frame. He moved closer and saw the snakes emblazoned on their chests: Slytherins. Regulus was instantly recognizable as the boy sitting in the middle of the front row: He had the same dark hair and slightly haughty look of his brother, though he was smaller, slighter, and rather less handsome than Sirius had been.

"He played Seeker," said Harry.

"What?" said Hermione vaguely; she was still immersed in Voldemort's press clippings.

"He's sitting in the middle of the front row, that's where the Seeker... Never mind," said Harry, realizing that nobody was listening. Ron was on his hands and knees, searching under the wardrobe while Abigail hunted above him through its dusty drawers for anything possibly helpful. Harry looked around the room for likely hiding places and approached the desk. Yet again, somebody had searched before them. The drawers' contents had been turned over recently, the dust disturbed, but there was nothing of value there: old quills, out-of-date textbooks that bore evidence of being roughly handled, a recently smashed ink bottle, its sticky residue covering the contents of the drawer.

"There's an easier way," said Hermione, as Harry wiped his inky fingers on his jeans. She raised her wand and said_, "Accio Locket!"_

Nothing happened. Ron, who had been searching the folds of the faded curtains, looked disappointed.

"Is that it, then? It's not here?"

"Oh, it could still be here, but under counter-enchantments," said Abigail, tossing an old, tattered shirt over her shoulder as she continued to rifle through the wardrobe . "Charms to prevent it from being summoned magically, you know."

"Like Voldemort put on the stone basin in the cave," said Harry, remembering how he had been unable to Summon the fake locket.

"How are we supposed to find it then?" asked Ron.

"We search manually," said Hermione.

"That's a good idea," said Ron, rolling his eyes, and he resumed his examination of the curtains.

They combed every inch of the room for more than an hour, but were forced, finally, to conclude that the locket was not there.

The sun had risen now; its light dazzled them even through the grimy landing windows.

"It could be somewhere else in the house, though," said Hermione in a rallying tone as they walked back downstairs. As Harry, Abigail, and Ron had become more discouraged, she seemed to have become more determined. "Whether he'd manage to destroy it or not, he'd want to keep it hidden from Voldemort, wouldn't he? Remember all those awful things we had to get rid of when we were here last time? That clock that shot bolts at everyone and those old robes that tried to strangle Ron; Regulus might have put them there to protect the locket's hiding place, even though we didn't realize it at... at..."

Harry, Abigail, and Ron looked at her. She was standing with one foot in midair, with the dumbstruck look of one who had just been Obliviated: her eyes had even drifted out of focus.

"... at the time," she finished in a whisper.

"Something wrong?" asked Ron.

"There was a locket."

"What?" said the other three together.

"In the cabinet in the drawing room. Nobody could open it. And we... we..."

Harry felt as though a brick had slid down through his chest into his stomach. He remembered. He had even handled the thing as they passed it around, each trying in turn to pry it open. It had been tossed into a sack of rubbish, along with the snuffbox of Wartcap powder and the music box that had made everyone sleepy...

"Kreacher nicked loads of things back from us," said Harry quietly. It was the only chance, the only slender hope left to them, and he was going to cling to it until forced to let go. "He had a whole stash of stuff in his cupboard in the kitchen. C'mon."

He ran down the stairs taking two steps at a time, the others thundering along in his wake. They made so much noise that they woke the portrait of Sirius's mother as they passed through the hall.

_"Filth! Mudbloods! Scum!"_ she screamed after them as they dashed down into the basement kitchen and slammed the door behind them. Harry ran the length of the room, skidded to a halt at the door of Kreacher's cupboard, and wrenched it open. There was the nest of dirty old blankets in which the house-elf had once slept, but they were not longer glittering with the trinkets Kreacher had salvaged. The only thing there was an old copy of _Nature's Nobility: A Wizarding Genealogy. _Refusing to believe his eyes, Harry snatched up the blankets and shook them. A dead mouse fell out and rolled dismally across the floor. Ron groaned as he threw himself into a kitchen chair; Hermione closed her eyes.

"It's not over yet," said Abigail firmly, eyes blazing with determination, and without a wince in regards to her healing burn, she raised her voice and practically schreeched, _"Kreacher!"_

There was a loud crack and the house elf that Harry- and Abigail too, so it seemed- had so reluctantly inherited from Sirius appeared out of nowhere in front of the cold and empty fireplace: tiny, half human-sized, his pale skin hanging off him in folds, white hair sprouting copiously from his batlike ears. He was still wearing the filthy rag in which they had first met him, and the contemptuous look he bent upon Harry and Abigail showed that his attitude to his changes in ownership had altered no more than his outfit.

"Mistress," croaked Kreacher in his bullfrog's voice, and he bowed low; muttering to his knees, "back in my old Mistress's house with Master and the blood-traitor Weasley and the Mudblood-"

"I forbid you to call anyone 'blood traitor' or 'Mudblood,'" growled Abigail, and Harry gave a firm nod in agreement. He would have found Kreacher, with his snoutlike nose and bloodshot eyes, a distinctively unlovable object even if the elf had not betrayed Sirius to Voldemort.

"We've got a question for you," said Abigail, uncharacteristically cold, "and I order you to answer it truthfully. Understand?"

Harry swallowed as Kreacher leered at them, his heart beating rather fast as he looked down at the elf.

"Yes, Mistress," said Kreacher, bowing low again. Harry saw his lips moving soundlessly, undoubtedly framing the insults he was now forbidden to utter.

"Harry," Abigail pressed, stepping back.

"Two years ago," said Harry, his heart now hammering against his ribs, "there was a big gold locket in the drawing room upstairs. We threw it out. Did you steal it back?"

There was a moment's silence, during which Kreacher straightened up to look Harry full in the face. Then he said, "Yes."

"Where is it now?" asked Harry jubilantly as Ron and Hermione looked gleeful.

Kreacher closed his eyes as though he could not bear to see their reactions to his next word.

"Gone."

"Gone?" echoed Harry, elation floating out of him, "What do you mean, it's gone?"

The elf shivered. He swayed.

"Kreacher," said Harry fiercely, "I order you-"

"Mundungus Fletcher," croaked the elf, his eyes still tight shut. "Mundungus Fletcher stole it all; Miss Bella's and Miss Cissy's pictures, my Mistress's gloves, the Order of Merlin, First Class, the goblets with the family crest, and- and-"

Kreacher was gulping for air: His hollow chest was rising and falling rapidly, then his eyes flew open and he uttered a bloodcurdling scream.

"-and the locket, Master Regulus's locket. Kreacher did wrong, Kreacher failed in his orders!"

Harry reacted instinctively: As Kreacher lunged for the poker standing in the grate, he launched himself upon the elf, flattening him. Hermione's scream mingled with Kreacher's but Harry bellowed louder than both of them: "Kreacher, I order you to stay still!"

He felt the elf freeze and released him. Kreacher lay flat on the cold stone floor, tears gushing from his sagging eyes.

"Harry, let him up!" Hermione whispered.

"So he can beat himself up with the poker?" snorted Harry, kneeling beside the elf. "I don't think so."

"He's right, Hermione," said Abigail quietly, keeping her face as expressionless as possible.

"Right," said Harry, "Kreacher, I want the truth: How do you know Mundungus Fletcher stole the locket?"

"Kreacher saw him!" gasped the elf as tears poured over his snout and into his mouth full of graying teeth. "Kreacher saw him coming out of Kreacher's cupboard with his hands full of Kreacher's treasures. Kreacher told the sneak thief to stop, but Mundungus Fletcher laughed and r-ran..."

"You called the locket 'Master Regulus's,'" said Harry. "Why? Where did it come from? What did Regulus have to do with it? Kreacher, sit up and tell me everything you know about that locket, and everything Regulus had to do with it!"

The elf sat up, curled into a ball, placed his wet face between his knees, and began to rock backward and forward. When he spoke, his voice was muffled but quite distinct in the silent, echoing kitchen.

"Master Sirius ran away, good riddance, for he was a bad boy and broke my Mistress's heart with his lawless ways. But Master Regulus had proper order; he knew what was due to the name of Black and the dignity of his pure blood. For years he talked of the Dark Lord, who was going to bring the wizards out of hiding to rule the Muggles and the Muggle-borns... and when he was sixteen years old, Master Regulus joined the Dark Lord. So proud, so proud, so happy to serve...

"And one day, a year after he joined, Master Regulus came down to the kitchen to see Kreacher. Master Regulus always liked Kreacher. And Master Regulus said... he said..."

The old elf rocked faster than ever.

"...he said that the Dark Lord required an elf."

"Voldemort needed an elf?" Harry repeated, looking around at Abigail and Ron and Hermione, who looked just as puzzled as he did.

"Oh yes," moaned Kreacher. "And Master Regulus had volunteered Kreacher. It was an honor, said Master Regulus, an honor for him and for Kreacher, who must be sure to do whatever the Dark Lord ordered him to do... and then to c-come home."

Kreacher rocked still faster, his breath coming in sobs.

"So Kreacher went to the Dark Lord. The Dark Lord did not tell Kreacher what they were to do, but took Kreacher with him to a cave beside the sea. And beyond the cave was a cavern, and in the cavern was a great black lake..."

The hairs on the back of Harry's neck stood up. Kreacher's croaking voice seemed to come to him from across the dark water. He saw what had happened as clearly as though he had been present.

"... There was a boat..."

Of course there had been a boat; Harry knew the boat, ghostly green and tiny, bewitched so as to carry one wizard and one victim toward the island in the center. This, then, was how Voldemort had tested the defenses surrounding the Horcrux, by borrowing a disposable creature, a house-elf...

"There was a b-basin full of potion on the island. The D-Dark Lord made Kreacher drink it..."

The elf quaked from head to foot.

"Kreacher drank, and as he drank he saw terrible things... Kreacher's insides burned... Kreacher cried for Master Regulus to save him, he cried for his Mistress Black, but the Dark Lord only laughed... He made Kreacher drink all the potion... He dropped a locket into the empty basin... He filled it with more potion."

"And then the Dark Lord sailed away, leaving Kreacher on the island..."

Harry could see it happening. He watched Voldemort's white, snakelike face vanishing into darkness, those red eyes fixed pitilessly on the thrashing elf whose death would occur within minutes, whenever he succumbed to the desperate thirst that the burning poison caused its victim... But here, Harry's imagination could go no further, for he could not see how Kreacher had escaped.

"Kreacher needed water, he crawled to the island's edge and he drank from the black lake... and hands, dead hands, came out of the water and dragged Kreacher under the surface..."

"How did you get away?" Harry asked, and he was not surprised to hear himself whispering.

Kreacher raised his ugly head and looked Harry with his great, bloodshot eyes.

"Master Regulus told Kreacher to come back," he said.

"I know- but how did you escape the Inferi?"

Kreacher did not seem to understand.

"Master Regulus told Kreacher to come back," he repeated.

"I know, but-"

"Well, it's obvious, isn't it, Harry?" said Ron. "He Disapparated!"

"But ... you couldn't Apparate in and out of that cave," said Harry, "otherwise Dumbledore-"

"Elf magic isn't like wizard's magic, is it?" said Ron, "I mean, they can Apparate and Disapparate in and out of Hogwarts when we can't."

There was a silence as Harry digested this. How could Voldemort have made such a mistake? But even as he thought this, Abigail spoke, and her voice was icy.

"Of course," she muttered. "Voldemort would have considered the ways of house-elves far beneath his notice... It would never have occurred to him that they might have magic that he didn't."

"The house-elf's highest law is his Master's bidding," intoned Kreacher. "Kreacher was told to come home, so Kreacher came home..."

"Well, then, you did what you were told, didn't you?" said Hermione kindly. "You didn't disobey orders at all!"

Kreacher shook his head, rocking as fast as ever.

"So what happened when you got back?" Harry asked. "What did Regulus say when you told him what happened?"

"Master Regulus was very worried, very worried," croaked Kreacher. "Master Regulus told Kreacher to stay hidden and not to leave the house. And then... it was a little while later... Master Regulus came to find Kreacher in his cupboard one night, and Master Regulus was strange, not as he usually was, disturbed in his mind, Kreacher could tell... and he asked Kreacher to take him to the cave, the cave where Kreacher had gone with the Dark Lord..."

And so they had set off. Harry could visualize them quite clearly, the frightened old elf and the thin, dark Seeker who had so resembled Sirius... Kreacher knew how to open the concealed entrance to the underground cavern, knew how to raise the tiny boat: this time it was his beloved Regulus who sailed with him to the island with its basin of poison...

"And he made you drink the poison?" said Harry, disgusted.

But Kreacher shook his head and wept. Hermione's hands leapt to her mouth: She seemed to have understood something.

"M-Master Regulus took from his pocket a locket like the one the Dark Lord had," said Kreacher, tears pouring down either side of his snoutlike nose. "And he told Kreacher to take it and, when the basin was empty, to switch the lockets ..."

Kreacher's sobs came in great rasps now; Harry had to concentrate hard to understand him.

"And he ordered- Kreacher to leave- without him. And he told Kreacher- to go home- and never to tell my Mistress- what he had done- but to destroy- the first locket. And he drank- all the potion- and Kreacher swapped the lockets- and watched... as Master Regulus... was dragged beneath the water... and..."

"Oh, Kreacher!" wailed Hermione, who was crying. She dropped to her knees beside the elf and tried to hug him. At once he was on his feet, cringing away from her, quite obviously repulsed.

"The Mudblood touched Kreacher, he will not allow it, what would his Mistress say?"

"I told you not to call her 'Mudblood'!" said Abigail firmly, but with a new, small shake in her voice and eyes looking wet. The elf, however, was already punishing himself. He fell to the ground and banged his forehead on the floor.

"Stop him- stop him!" Hermione cried. "Oh, don't you see now how sick it is, the way they've got to obey?"

"Kreacher- stop, stop!" shouted Harry.

The elf lay on the floor, panting and shivering, green mucus glistening around his snot, a bruise already blooming on his pallid forehead where he had struck himself, his eyes swollen and bloodshot and swimming in tears. Harry had never seen anything so pitiful.

"So you brought the locket home," he said relentlessly, for he was determined to know the full story. "And you tried to destroy it?"

"Nothing Kreacher did made any mark upon it," moaned the elf. "Kreacher tried everything, everything he knew, but nothing, nothing would work... So many powerful spells upon the casing, Kreacher was sure the way to destroy it was to get inside it, but it would not open... Kreacher punished himself, he tried again, he punished himself, he tried again. Kreacher failed to obey orders, Kreacher could not destroy the locket! And his mistress was mad with grief, because Master Regulus had disappeared and Kreacher could not tell her what had happened, no, because Master Regulus had f-f-forbidden him to tell any of the f-f-family what happened in the c-cave..."

Kreacher began to sob so hard that there were no more coherent words. Tears flowed down Hermione's cheeks as she watched Kreacher, but she did not dare touch him again. Even Ron, who was no fan of Kreacher's, looked troubled. Abigail wasn't looking at them anymore, but at the wall, a mix of horrified, angry, and distressing emotions written across her face. Harry sat back on his heels and shook his head, trying to clear it.

"I don't understand you, Kreacher," he said finally. "Voldemort tried to kill you, Regulus died to bring Voldemort down, but you were still happy to betray Sirius to Voldemort? You were happy to go to Narcissa and Bellatrix, and pass information to Voldemort through them..."

"Harry, Kreacher doesn't think like that," said Hermione, wiping her eyes on the back of her hand. "He's a slave; house-elves are used to bad, even brutal treatment; what Voldemort did to Kreacher wasn't that far out of the common way. What do wizard wars mean to an elf like Kreacher? He's loyal to people who are kind to him, and Mrs. Black must have been, and Regulus certainly was, so he served them willingly and parroted their beliefs. I know what you're going to say," she went on as Harry began to protest, "that Regulus changed his mind... but he doesn't seem to have explained that to Kreacher, does he? And I think I know why. Kreacher and Regulus's family were all safest if they kept to the old pure-blood line. Regulus was trying to protect them all."

"Sirius-"

"Sirius was horrible to Kreacher, Harry, and it's no good looking like that, you know it's true. Kreacher had been alone for such a long time when Sirius came to live here, and he was probably starving for a bit of affection. I'm sure 'Miss Cissy' and 'Miss Bella' were perfectly lovely to Kreacher when he turned up, so he did them a favor and told them everything they wanted to know. I've said all along that wizards would pay for how they treat house-elves. Well, Voldemort did... and so did Sirius."

Harry had no retort. As he watched Kreacher sobbing on the floor, he remembered what Dumbledore had said to him, mere hours after Sirius's death: _I do not think Sirius ever saw Kreacher as a being with feelings as acute as a human's..._

"Kreacher," said Harry after a while, "when you feel up to it, er... please sit up."

It was several minutes before Kreacher hiccupped himself into silence. Then he pushed himself into a sitting position again, rubbing his knuckles into his eyes like a small child.

"Kreacher, I am going to ask you to do something," said Harry. He glanced at Hermione for assistance. He wanted to give the order kindly, but at the same time, he could not pretend that it was not an order. However, the change in his tone seemed to have gained her approval: She smiled encouragingly.

"Kreacher, I want you, please, to go and find Mundungus Fletcher. We need to find out where the locket- where Master Regulus's locket it. It's really important. We want to finish the work Master Regulus started, we want to- er- ensure that he didn't die in vain."

Kreacher dropped his fists and looked up at Harry.

"Find Mundungus Fletcher?" he croaked.

"And bring him here, to Grimmauld Place," said Harry. "Do you think you could do that for us?"

Kreacher nodded and got to his feet, eyes red-rimmed.

"Wait," said Abigail suddenly. "One minute-"

Abruptly, Harry felt the weight of Hagrid'd purse disappear from his neck, and he looked up curiously at Abigail as she pulled it open and took out the fake Horcrux, the substitute locket in which Regulus had placed the note to Voldemort.

"Kreacher, I... erm-," Abigail stuttered, looking nervous but determined, "- I- w- we would llike you to have this," she stammered out, pressing the locket quickly into the elf's hand. "This belonged to Regulus and I'm sure he'd want you to have it as a token of gratitude for what you-"

"Overkill, Abbie," whispered Ron as the elf took one look at the locket, let out a howl of shock and misery, and threw himself back onto the ground. Abigail flushed like a tomato, embarressed.

It took them nearly half an hour to calm down Kreacher, who was so overcome to be presented with a Black family heirloom for his very own that he was too weak at the knees to stand properly. When finally he was able to totter a few steps they all accompanied him to his cupboard, watched him tuck up the locket safely in his dirty blankets, and assured him that they would make its protection their first priority while he was away. He then made two low bows to Harry and Abigail, and even gave a funny little spasm in Ron and Hermione's direction that might have been an attempt at a respectful salute, before Disapparating with the usual loud crack.

**  
... I'm just not going to say anything here. I'm too tired.**

Nope. Nothing.

Next Update: Soon. I hope.


	9. Chapter 9

How Three Became Four

**BUM BUM BUM! :) Here we are readers, at the third and final book of the How Three Became Four series! I can't believe we've finally made it! I hope you're all excited! After the actionated, romanticised, wild adventures of Harry's sixth year, we now come to what would be his seventh, if not, per say, he was going on quite the interesting adventure ;) There will be even more action, excitement, and a lot more romance! We all love our new little addition to Harry's life! :) Like the first and second books, the story will consist of a mushed versiony-thingy of the seventh Harry Potter book and the seventh Harry Potter movie. I hope that you enjoy our "home-stretch story", and I hope you keep reviewing for me :) Ready? Set? Action.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or anything included or endorsed by Warner Brothers or J.K. Rowling :) I think that about covers it.**

9) The Bribe

If Kreacher could escape a lake full of Inferi, Harry was confident that the capture of Mundungus would take a few hours at most, and he prowled the house all morning in a state of high anticipation. However, Kreacher did not return that morning or even that afternoon. By nightfall, Harry felt discouraged and anxious, and a supper composed largely of moldy bread, upon which Hermione had tried a variety of unsuccessful Transfigurations, did nothing to help.

"Please, just try to relax, Harry," said Abigail, frowning at the bread she was trying to help Hermione Transfigure as she spoke; however, nothing she did seemed to help either.

Kreacher did not return the following day, nor the day after that. However, two cloaked men had appeared in the square outside number twelve, and they remained there into the night, gazing in the direction of the house that they could not see.

"Death Eaters, for sure," said Ron, as he, Harry, Abigail, and Hermione watched from the drawing room windows. "Reckon they know we're in here?"

"I don't think so," said Hermione, though she looked frightened, "or they'd have sent Snape in after us, wouldn't they?"

"But the curses," said Abigail, contemplating. "All the curses were placed to prevent Snape's entrance here."

"You reckon he's been in here and has his tongue tied by Moody's curse?" asked Ron.

"Yes," said Abigail shortly, "otherwise he'd have been able to tell that lot how to get in, wouldn't he? But they're probably watching to see whether we turn up. They know that Harry and I own the house, after all."

"How do they-?" began Harry.

"Wizarding wills are examined by the Ministry, remember? They'll know Sirius left us the place."

The presence of the Death Eaters outside increased the ominous mood inside number twelve. They had not heard a word form anyone beyond Grimmauld Place since Mr. Weasley's Patronus, and the strain was starting to tell. Restless and irritable, Ron had developed an annoying habit of playing with the Deluminator in his pocket; This particularly infuriated Hermione, who was whiling away the wait for Kreacher by studying _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_ and did not appreciate the way the lights kept flashing on and off.

"Will you stop it!" she cried on the third evening of Kreacher's absence, as all the light was sucked from the drawing room yet again.

"Sorry, sorry!" said Ron, clicking the Deluminator and restoring the lights. "I don't know I'm doing it!"

"Well, can't you find something useful to occupy yourself?"

"What, like reading kids' stories?"

"Dumbledore left me this book, Ron-"

"-and he left me the Deluminator, maybe I'm supposed to use it!"

"Hermione, Ron, please!" Abigail said, exasperated. "Can you knock it off?!"

As Hermione and Ron started on her, unable to stand the bickering, Harry slipped out of the room unnoticed by any of them. He headed downstairs toward the kitchen, which he kept visiting because he was sure that was where Kreacher was most likely to reappear. Halfway down the flight of stairs into the hall, however, he heard a tap on the front door, then metallic clicks and the grinding of the chain.

Every nerve in his body seemed to tauten: He pulled out his wand, moved into the shadows beside the decapitated elf heads, and waited. The door opened: He saw a glimpse of the lamplit square outside, and a cloaked figure edged into the hall and closed the door behind it. The intruder took a step forward, and Moody's voice asked, _"Severus Snape?"_ Then the dust figure rose from the end of the hall and rushed him, raising its dead hand.

"It was not I who killed you, Albus," said a quiet voice.

The jinx broke: The dust-figure exploded again, and it was impossible to make out the newcomer through the dense gray cloud it left behind.

Harry pointed the wand into the middle of it.

"Don't move!"

He had forgotten the portrait of Mrs. Black: At the sound of his yell, the curtains hiding her flew open and she began to scream, _"Mudbloods and filth dishonoring my house-"_

Abigail, Ron, and Hermione came crashing down the stairs behind Harry, wands pointing, like his, at the unknown man now standing with his arms raised in the hall below.

"Hold your fire, it's me, Remus!"

"Oh, thank goodness," said Hermione weakly, pointing her wand at Mrs. Black instead; with a bang, the curtains swished shut again and silence fell. Abigail and Ron too lowered their wands, but Harry did not.

"Show yourself!" he called back.

Lupin moved forward into the lamplight, hands still held high in a gesture of surrender.

"I am Remus John Lupin, werewolf, sometimes known as Moony, one of the four creators of the Marauder's Map, married to Nymphadora, usually known as Tonks, and I taught you how to produce a Patronus, Harry, which takes the form of a stag."

"Oh, all right," said Harry, lowering his wand, "but I had to check, didn't I?"

"Speaking as your ex-Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, I quite agree that you had to check. Abbie, Ron, Hermione, you shouldn't be so quick to lower your defenses."

They ran down the stairs towards him. Wrapped in a thick black traveling cloak, he looked exhausted, but pleased to see them. Abigail quickly threw her arms around him, smiling.

"No sign of Severus, then?" Lupin asked as they pulled apart.

"No," said Harry. "What's going on? Is everyone okay?"

"Yes," said Lupin, "but we're all being watched. There are a couple of Death Eaters in the square outside-"

"We know-"

"I had to Apparate very precisely onto the top step outside the front door to be sure that they would not see me. They can't know you're in here or I'm sure they'd have more people out there; they're staking out everywhere that's got any connection with you, Harry. Let's go downstairs, there's a lot to tell you, and I want to know what happened after you left the Burrow."

They descended into the kitchen, where Hermione pointed her wand at the grate. A fire sprang up instantly: It gave the illusion of coziness to the stark stone walls and glistened off the long wooden table. Lupin pulled a few butterbeers from beneath his traveling cloak and they sat down.

"I'd have been here three days ago but I needed to shake off the Death Eater tailing me," said Lupin. "So, you came straight here after the wedding?"

"No," said Harry, "only after we ran into a couple of Death Eaters in a café on Tottenham Court Road."

Lupin slopped most of his butterbeer down his front.

"What?"

They explained what had happened; when they had finished, Lupin looked aghast.

"But how did they find you so quickly? It's impossible to track anyone who Apparates, unless you grab hold of them as they disappear."

"And it doesn't seem likely they were just strolling down Tottenham Court Road at the time, does it?" said Abigail.

"We wondered," said Hermione tentatively, "whether Harry could still have the Trace on him?"

"Impossible," said Lupin. Ron looked smug, and Harry felt hugely relieved. "Apart from anything else, they'd know for sure Harry was here if he still had the Trace on him, wouldn't they? But I can't see how they could have tracked you to Tottenham Court Road, that's worrying, really worrying."

He looked disturbed, but as far as Harry was concerned, that question could wait.

"Tell us what happened after we left, we haven't heard a thing since Ron's dad told us the family was safe."

"Well, Kingsley saved us," said Lupin. "Thanks to his warning most of the wedding guests were able to Disapparate before they arrived."

"Were they Death Eaters or Ministry people?" interjected Hermione.

"A mixture; but to all intents and purposes they're the same thing now," said Lupin. "There were about a dozen of them, but they didn't know you were there, Harry. Arthur heard a rumor that they tried to torture your whereabouts out of Scrimgeour before they killed him; if it's true, he didn't give you away."

Harry looked at Abigail, Ron, and Hermione; their expressions reflected the mingled shock and gratitude he felt. He had never liked Scrimgeour much, but if what Lupin said was true, the man's final act had been to try to protect Harry.

"The Death Eaters searched the Burrow from top to bottom," Lupin went on. "They found the ghoul, but didn't want to get too close- and then they interrogated those of us who remained for hours. They were trying to get information on you, Harry, but of course nobody apart from the Order knew that you had been there."

"At the same time that they were smashing up the wedding, more Death Eaters were forcing their way into every Order-connected house in the country. No deaths," he added quickly, forestalling the question, "but they were rough. They burned down Dedalus Diggle's house, but as you know he wasn't there, and they used the Cruciatus Curse on Tonks's family-"

Abigail looked murderous at this; her hands gripped her Butterbeer with such furvor that her knuckles turned white.

"- again, trying to find out where you went after you visited them. They're all right- shaken, obviously, but otherwise okay."

"The Death Eaters got through all those protective charms?" Harry asked, remembering how effective these had been on the night he had crashed in Tonks's parents' garden.

"What you've got to realize, Harry, is that the Death Eaters have got the full might of the Ministry on their side now," said Lupin. "They've got the power to perform brutal spells without fear of identification or arrest. They managed to penetrate every defensive spell we'd cast against them, and once inside, they were completely open about why they'd come."

"And are they bothering to give an excuse for torturing Harry's whereabouts out of people?" asked Abigail, an edge to her voice.

"Well," Lupin said. He hesitated, then pulled out a folded copy of the _Daily Prophet._

"Here," he said, pushing it across the table to Harry, "you'll know sooner or later anyway. That's their pretext for going after you."

Harry smoothed out the paper. A huge photograph of his own face filled the front page. He read the headline over it:

_WANTED FOR QUESTIONING ABOUT THE DEATH OF ALBUS DUMBLEDORE_

Ron and Hermione gave roars of outrage, and Abigail gave the paper a glare to rival Mrs. Weasley's own, but Harry said nothing. He pushed the newspaper away; he did not want to read anymore: He knew what it would say. Nobody but those who had been on top of the tower when Dumbledore died knew who had really killed him and, as Rita Skeeter had already told the Wizarding world, Harry had been seen running from the place moments after Dumbledore had fallen.

"I'm sorry, Harry," Lupin said.

"So Death Eaters have taken over the _Daily Prophet _too?" asked Hermione furiously.

Lupin nodded.

"But surely people realize what's going on?"

"The coup has been smooth and virtually silent," said Lupin. "The official version of Scrimgeour's murder is that he resigned; he has been replaced by Pius Thicknesse, who is under the Imperius Curse."

"Why didn't Voldemort declare himself Minister of Magic?" asked Ron.

Lupin laughed.

"He doesn't need to, Ron. Effectively, he is the Minister, but why should he sit behind a desk at the Ministry? His puppet, Thicknesse, is taking care of everyday business, leaving Voldemort free to extend his power beyond the Ministry."

"Naturally many people have deduced what has happened: There has been such a dramatic change in Ministry policy in the last few days, and many are whispering that Voldemort must be behind it. However, that is the point: They whisper. They daren't confide in each other, not knowing whom to trust; they are scared to speak out, in case their suspicions are true and their families are targeted. Yes, Voldemort is playing a very clever game. Declaring himself might have provoked open rebellion: Remaining masked has created confusion, uncertainty, and fear."

"And this dramatic change in Ministry policy," said Abigail darkly, "involves warning the Wizarding world against Harry instead of Voldemort?"

"That's certainly a part of it," said Lupin, "and it is a masterstroke."

He turned to speak to Harry then. "Now that Dumbledore is dead, you- the Boy Who Lived- were sure to be the symbol and rallying point for any resistance to Voldemort. But by suggesting that you had a hand in the old hat's death, Voldemort has not only set a price upon your head, but sown doubt and fear amongst many who would have defended you."

"Meanwhile, the Ministry has started moving against Muggle-borns."

Lupin pointed at the _Daily Prophet_.

"Look at page two."

Hermione turned the pages with much the same expression of distaste she had when handling _Secrets of the Darkest Art._

"Muggle-born Register!" she read aloud. "'The Ministry of Magic is undertaking a survey of so-called "Muggle-borns", the better to understand how they came to possess magical secrets.

"'Recent research undertaken by the Department of Mysteries reveals that magic can only be passed from person to person when Wizards reproduce. Where no proven Wizarding ancestry exists, therefore, the so-called Muggle-born is likely to have obtained magical power by theft or force.

"'The Ministry is determined to root out such usurpers of magical power, and to this end has issued an invitation to every so-called Muggle-born to present themselves for interview by the newly appointed Muggle-born Registration Commission.'"

"People won't let this happen," said Ron.

"It is happening, Ron," said Lupin. "Muggle-borns are being rounded up as we speak."

"But how are they supposed to have 'stolen' magic?" Abigail demanded, standing up and beginning to pace. "It's mad! If you could steal magic there wouldn't be any Squibs, would there?"

"I know," said Lupin. "Nevertheless, unless you can prove that you have at least one close Wizarding relative, you are now deemed to have obtained your magical power illegally and must suffer the punishment."

Ron glanced at Hermione, then said, "What if purebloods and halfbloods swear a Muggle-born's part of their family? I'll tell everyone Hermione's my cousin-"

Hermione covered Ron's hand with hers and squeezed it.

"Thank you, Ron, but I couldn't let you-"

"You won't have a choice," said Ron fiercely, gripping her hand back. "I'll teach you my family tree so you can answer questions on it."

Hermione gave a shaky laugh.

"Ron, as we're on the run with Harry Potter, the most wanted person in the country, I don't think it matters. If I was going back to school it would be different."

"What's Voldemort planning for Hogwarts?" Abigail asked Lupin as she moved back and forth.

"Attendance is now compulsory for every young witch and wizard," he replied. "That was announced yesterday. It's a change, because it was never obligatory before. Of course, nearly every witch and wizard in Britain has been educated at Hogwarts, but their parents had the right to teach them at home or send them abroad if they preferred. This way, Voldemort will have the whole Wizarding population under his eye from a young age. And it's also another way of weeding out Muggle-borns, because students must be given Blood Status- meaning that they have proven to the Ministry that they are of Wizard descent- before they are allowed to attend."

Angry color flooded Abigail's face. Harry felt sickened and angry: At this moment, excited eleven-year-olds would be poring over stacks of newly purchased spell-books, unaware that they would never see Hogwarts, perhaps never see their families again either.

"It's... it's..." he muttered, struggling to find words that did justice to the horror of his thoughts, but Lupin said quietly, "I know."

Lupin hesitated.

"I'll understand if you can't confirm this, Harry, but the Order is under the impression that Dumbledore left you a mission."

"He did," Harry replied, "and Abbie, Ron, and Hermione are in on it and they're coming with me."

"Can you confide in me what the mission is?"

Harry looked into the prematurely lined face, framed in thick but graying hair, and wished that he could return a different answer.

"I can't, Remus, I'm sorry. If Dumbledore didn't tell you I don't think I can."

"I thought you'd say that," said Lupin, looking disappointed. "But I might still be of some use to you. You know what I am and what I can do. I could come with you to provide protection. There would be no need to tell me exactly what you were up to."

Harry hesitated. It was a very tempting offer, though how they would be able to keep their mission secret from Lupin if he were with them all the time he could not imagine.

Abigail, however, who had stopped in her pacing, looked at him, puzzled.

"But what about Tonks?" she asked.

"What about her?" said Lupin.

"Well," said Abigail, frowning, an edge to her tone, "you're married! How does she feel about you going away with us?"

"Tonks will be perfectly safe," said Lupin, "She'll be at her parents' house."

Harry saw Abigail's eyes narrow suspiciously. There was something strange in Lupin's tone, it was almost cold. There was also something odd in the idea of Tonks remaining hidden at her parents' house; she was, after all, a member of the Order and, as far as Harry knew, was likely to want to be in the thick of the action.

"Remus," said Hermione tentatively, "is everything all right... you know... between you and-"

"Everything is fine, thank you," said Lupin pointedly.

Hermione turned pink. There was another pause, an awkward and embarrassed one, and then Lupin said, with an air of forcing himself to admit something unpleasant, "Tonks is going to have a baby."

The room went deathly silence for a long moment. The foursome had all frozen, staring at Lupin.

"Oh, how wonderful!" squealed Hermione.

"Excellent!" said Ron enthusiastically.

"Congratulations," said Harry.

"Erm... wow," said Abigail, eyes wide and blinking rapidly. "I... I just... I mean... _wow._" Looking utterly stunned, she sank into the couch next to Harry, who took her hand in his.

Lupin gave an artificial smile that was more like a grimace, then said, "So... do you accept my offer? Will four become five? I cannot believe that Dumbledore would have disapproved, he appointed me your Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, after all. And I must tell you that I believe we are facing magic many of us have never encountered or imagined."

Ron and Hermione both looked at Harry and Abigail. Harry and she shared an odd look, before they looked back at Lupin.

"Just- just to be clear," he said. "You want to leave Tonks at her parents' house and come away with us?"

"She'll be perfectly safe there, they'll look after her," said Lupin. He spoke with a finality bordering on indifference: "Harry, I'm sure James would have wanted me to stick with you."

"Well," said Harry slowly, "I'm not. I'm pretty sure my father would have wanted to know why you aren't sticking with your own kid, actually."

Lupin's face drained of color. The temperature in the kitchen might have dropped ten degrees. Ron stared around the room as though he had been bidden to memorize it, while Hermione's eyes swiveled backward and forward from Harry to Lupin. Abigail stiffened, wide eyes locked on Lupin, barely breathing.

"You don't understand," said Lupin at last.

"Explain, then," said Abigail quietly, before Harry could.

Hearing her tight, hushed request instead of Harry's own seemed to make Lupin pale even more, if it seemed possible. Lupin swallowed.

"I- I made a grave mistake in marrying Tonks. I did it against my better judgment and have regretted it very much every since."

Abigail took a light, shaky breath. A strange expression crossed her face, with so many emotions- none of them good- that Harry couldn't quite put words to the look written across it. Her whole body was rigid in posture, and her hands were trembling. With anger or trepidation or devastation or more, Harry did not know.

"I see," said Harry, "so you're just going to dump her and the kid and run off with us?"

Lupin sprang to his feet: His chair toppled over backward, and he glared at them so fiercely that Harry saw, for the first time ever, the shadow of the wolf upon his human face.

"Don't you understand what I've done to my wife and my unborn child? I should never have married her, I've made her an outcast!"

Lupin kicked aside the chair he had overturned.

"You have only ever seen me amongst the Order, or under Dumbledore's protection at Hogwarts! You don't know how most of the Wizarding world sees creatures like me! When they know of my affliction, they can barely talk to me! Don't you see what I've done?

Even her own family is disgusted by our marriage, what parents want their only daughter to marry a werewolf? And the child- the child-"

Lupin actually seized handfuls of his own hair; he looked quite deranged.

"My kind don't usually breed! It will be like me, I am convinced of it- how can I forgive myself, when I knowingly risked passing on my own condition to an innocent child? And if, by some miracle, it is not like me, then it will be better off, a hundred times so, without a father of whom it must always be ashamed!"

The look on Abigail's face was so shocked and terrible. Her eyes were filled with pain. The utter hurt written over her face was enough to make someone cry; Harry felt deplorable just looking at her.

"Remus!" whispered Hermione, tears in her eyes. "Don't say that- how could any child be ashamed of you?"

"Oh, I don't know, Hermione," said Harry. "I'd be pretty ashamed of him."

Harry did not know where his rage was coming from, but it had propelled him to his feet too. Lupin looked as though Harry had hit him.

"If the new regime thinks Muggle-borns are bad," Harry said, "what will they do to a half-werewolf whose father's in the Order? My father died trying to protect my mother and me, and you reckon he'd tell you to abandon your kid to go on an adventure with us?"

"How- how dare you?" said Lupin. "This is not about a desire for- for danger or personal glory- how dare you suggest such a- "

"I think you're feeling a bit of a daredevil," Harry said, "You fancy stepping into Sirius's shoes-"

"Harry, no!" Hermione begged him, but he continued to glare into Lupin's livid face.

"I'd never have believed this," Harry said. "The man who taught me to fight dementors- a coward."

Lupin drew his wand so fast that Harry had barely reached for his own; there was a loud bang and he felt himself flying backward as if punched. He slammed into the kitchen wall and slid to the floor, his head throbbing. Hermione screamed out in terror, Ron in anger.

Harry felt for his wand, reached for the wood shoved in his pocket, but he had not barely reached it a moment later when a voice shouted _"ENOUGH!"_

Abigail was on her feet now, wand pointed directly at Lupin. Her face, her entire being was filled with wrath and ire. She literally shook with it. Her eyes, brimming with angry tears, were locked on Lupin.

Lupin's face went white now as he looked at her, completely stark against the dark walls of the room. He seemed to have forgotten she, _she _was there, Tonks' makeshift daughter, almost his own makeshift daughter. His wand arm fell limply to his side and lay there, decripit.

"How- how dare-," Abigail choked out past her tremors. "How could you- you dare- you- you, you- you would- could- how could you-" Her spluttering voice was thick and devastated. Her face was rose-red. "Why would- I don't even- why- _why-_"

Lupin was shaking now too. "Abbie-"

_"How could you?!"_ she finally shrieked at him, her voice breaking. "You- youyou- _monster!_ You _monster, _how could you?!"

He flinched as she spat out _monster_, looking pained. He appeared unable to speak, staring desperately at her.

She took a deep, shivering breath, lips quivering. Her wand shook so badly, Harry wasn't sure where her spell would actually go if she shot one.

"L- leave," she stammered out. "Leave. N- now. Go."

"I- I-"

_"Get out!"_ she screamed, tears beginning to stream down her face. _"Leave! Now!"_

A moment passed, a moment so long it felt like an hour, and then Lupin, looking withered and crushed swept quickly past her, up the stairs, and disappeared. They heard the door open, shut, and then a muffled _crack_ as Lupin Disapparated.

Abigail burst into sobs, her wand falling sadly onto the carpet. Her hands flew to her eyes, covering them as she wept, choking and swallowing thickly and gasping for breath. Ron rushed forward, pulling her into his arms; she let out a wail and clutched at his shirt, her face buried into his shoulder.

"Harry!" Hermione cried. "How could you?"

"It was easy," said Harry. He stood up, he could feel a lump swelling where his head had hit the wall. He was still so full of anger he was shaking.

"Don't look at me like that!" he snapped at Hermione.

"Don't you start on her!" snarled Ron over Abigail's sobs, dulled into his shirt.

"No- no- we mustn't fight!" said Hermione, launching herself between them.

"You shouldn't have said that stuff to Lupin," Ron told Harry.

"He had it coming to him," said Harry. Broken images were racing each other through his mind: _Sirius falling through the veil; Dumbledore suspended, broken, in midair; a flash of green light and his mother's voice, begging for mercy..._

"Parents," said Harry, "shouldn't leave their kids unless- unless they've got to."

"Harry-" said Hermione, stretching out a consoling hand, but he shrugged it off and walked away, his eyes on the fire Hermione had conjured, trying to block out Abigail's crying as Ron rubbed her back, awkwardly trying to shush her. He had once spoken to Lupin out of that fireplace, seeking reassurance about James, and Lupin had consoled him. Now Lupin's tortured white face seemed to swim in the air before him. He felt a sickening surge of remorse. Neither Ron nor Hermione spoke, but Harry felt sure that they were looking at each other behind his back, communicating silently.

He turned around and caught them turning hurriedly away form each other.

"I know I shouldn't have called him a coward."

"No, you shouldn't," said Ron at once.

"But he's acting like one."

"All the same..." said Hermione.

"I know," said Harry. "But if it makes him go back to Tonks, it'll be worth it, won't it?"

He could not keep the plea out of his voice. Hermione looked sympathetic, Ron uncertain. Abigail choked on a cry at his words; Hermione reached out to stroke her hair.

Harry looked down at his feet, thinking of his father. Would James have backed Harry in what he had said to Lupin, or would he have been angry at how his son had treated his old friend?

The kitchen, filled only with the sound of Abigail attempting to take deep, muted breaths, seemed to hum with the shock of the recent scene and with Ron and Hermione's unspoken reproaches. The_ Daily Prophet_ Lupin had brought was still lying on the table, Harry's own face staring up at the ceiling from the front page. He walked over to it and sat down, opened the paper at random, and pretended to read. He could not take in the words; his mind was still too full of the encounter with Lupin. He was sure that Ron and Hermione had resumed their silent communications on the other side of the _Prophet. _He turned a page loudly, and Dumbledore's name leapt out at him. It was a moment or two before he took in the meaning of the photograph, which showed a family group. Beneath the photograph were the words: _The Dumbledore family, left to right: Albus; Percival, holding newborn Ariana; Kendra, and Aberforth._

His attention caught, Harry examined the picture more carefully. Dumbledore's father, Percival, was a good-looking man with eyes that seemed to twinkle even in this faded old photograph. The baby, Ariana, was a little longer than a loaf of bread and no more distinctive-looking. The mother, Kendra, had jet black hair pulled into a high bun. Her face had a carved quality about it. Harry thought of photos of Native Americans he'd seen as he studied her dark eyes, high cheekbones, and straight nose, formally composed above a high-necked silk gown. Albus and Aberforth wore matching lacy collared jackets and had identical, shoulder-length hairstyles. Albus looked several years older, but otherwise the two boys looked very alike, for this was before Albus's nose had been broken and before he started wearing glasses.

The family looked quite happy and normal, smiling serenely up out of the newspaper. Baby Ariana's arm waved vaguely out of her shawl. Harry looked above the picture and saw the headline:  
_  
EXCLUSIVE EXTRACT FROM UPCOMING BIOGRAPHY OF ALBUS DUMBLEDORE_

_by Rita Skeeter_

Thinking it could hardly make him feel any worse than he already did, Harry began to read:

_Proud and haughty, Kendra Dumbledore could not bear to remain in Mould-on-the-Wold after her husband Percival's well-publicized arrest and imprisonment in Azkaban. She therefore decided to uproot the family and relocate to Godric's Hollow, the village that was later to gain fame as the scene of Harry Potter's strange escape from You-Know-Who._

Like Mould-on-the-Wold, Godric's Hollow was home to a number of Wizarding families, but as Kendra knew none of them, she would be spared the curiosity about her husband's crime she had faced in her former village. By repeatedly rebuffing the friendly advances of her new Wizarding neighbors, she soon ensured that her family was left well alone.

"Slammed the door in my face when I went around to welcome her with a batch of homemade Cauldron Cakes," says Bathilda Bagshot. "The first year they were there I only ever saw the two boys. Wouldn't have known there was a daughter if I hadn't been picking Plangentines by moonlight the winter after they moved in, and saw Kendra leading Ariana out into the back garden. Walked her round the lawn once, keeping a firm grip on her, then took her back inside. Didn't know what to make of it."

It seems that Kendra thought the move to Godric's Hollow was the perfect opportunity to hide Ariana once and for all, something she had probably been planning for years. The timing was significant. Ariana was barely seven years old when she vanished from sight, and seven is the age by which most experts agree that magic will have revealed itself, if present. Nobody now alive remembers Ariana ever demonstrating even the slightest sign of magical ability. It seems clear, therefore, that Kendra made a decision to hide her daughter's existence rather than suffer the shame of admitting that she had produced a Squib. Moving away from the friends and neighbors who knew Ariana would, of course, make imprisoning her all the easier. The tiny number of people who henceforth knew of Ariana's existence could be counted upon to keep the secret, including her two brothers, who had deflected awkward questions with the answer their mother had taught them. "My sister is too frail for school."

Next week: Albus Dumbledore at Hogwarts- the Prizes and the Pretense.

Harry had been wrong: What he had read had indeed made him feel worse.

In the corner of his eye, he could see Abigail pulling away from Ron, sniffling, and looking over at him. He did not look up at her; he looked back at the photograph of the apparently happy family. Was it true? How could he find out? He wanted to go to Godric's Hollow, even if Bathilda was in no fit state to talk to him: he wanted to visit the place where he and Dumbledore had both lost loved ones.

He was in the process of lowering the newspaper, to ask Abigail's and Ron's and Hermione's opinions, when a deafening crack echoed around the kitchen.

For the first time in three days Harry had forgotten all about Kreacher. His immediate thought was that Lupin had burst back into the room, and for a split second, he did not take in the mass of struggling limbs that had appeared out of thin air right beside his chair. He hurried to his feet as Kreacher disentangled himself and, bowing low to Harry, croaked, "Kreacher has returned with the thief Mundungus Fletcher, Master."

Mundungus scrambled up and pulled out his wand; Hermione, however, was too quick for him.

_"Expelliarmus!"_

Mundungus's wand soared into the air, and Hermione caught it. Wild-eyed, Mundungus dived for the stairs. Ron rugby-tackled him and Mundungus hit the stone floor with a muffled crunch. Abigail quickly crouched, snatching her wand up from the floor, and stood back up, rushing over with it pointed at Mundungus.

"What?" he bellowed, writhing in his attempts to free himself from Ron's grip. "Wha've I done? Setting a bleedin' 'house-elf on me, what are you playing at, wha've I done, lemme go, lemme go, off-"

"You're not in much of a position to make threats," said Harry. He threw aside the newspaper, crossed the kitchen in a few strides, and dropped to his knees beside Mundungus, who stopped struggling and looked terrified. Ron got up, panting, and watched as Harry pointed his wand deliberately at Mundungus's nose. Mundungus stank of stale sweat and tobacco smoke. His hair was matted and his robes stained.

"Kreacher apologizes for the delay in bringing the thief, Master, Mistress," croaked the elf. "Fletcher knows how to avoid capture, has many hidey-holes and accomplices. Nevertheless, Kreacher cornered the thief in the end."

"You've done really well, Kreacher," said Abigail, and the elf bowed low.

"Right, we've got a few questions for you," Harry told Mundungus, who shouted at once.

"I panicked, okay? I never wanted to come along, no offense, mate, but I never volunteered to die for you, an' that was bleedin' You-Know-Who come flying at me, anyone woulda got outta there. I said all along I didn't wanna do it-"

"For your information, none of the rest of us Disapparated," said Hermione.

"Well, you're a bunch of bleedin' 'eroes then, aren't you, but I never pretended I was up for killing meself-"

"We're not interested in why you ran out on Mad-Eye and Abbie," said Harry, moving his wand a little closer to Mundungus's baggy, bloodshot eyes. "We already knew you were an unreliable bit of scum."

"Well then, why the 'ell am I being 'unted down by 'ouse-elves? Or is this about them goblets again? I ain't got none of 'em left, or you could 'ave 'em-"

"It's not about the goblets either, although you're getting warmer," said Harry. "Shut up and listen."

It felt wonderful to have something to do, someone of whom he could demand some small portion of truth. Harry's wand was now so close to the bridge of Mundungus's nose that Mundungus had gone cross-eyed trying to keep it in view.

"When you cleaned out this house of anything valuable," Harry began, but Mundungus interrupted him again.

"Sirius never cared about any of the junk-"

There was the sound of pattering feet, a blaze of shining copper, an echoing clang, and a shriek of agony; Kreacher had taken a run at Mundungus and hit him over the head with a saucepan.

"Call 'im off, call 'im off, 'e should be locked up!" screamed Mundungus, cowering as Kreacher raised the heavy-bottomed pan again.

"Kreacher, no!" shouted Harry.

Kreacher's thin arms trembled with the weight of the pan, still held aloft.

"Perhaps just one more, Master Harry, for luck?"

Ron laughed.

"We need him conscious, Kreacher, but if he needs persuading, you can do the honors," said Harry.

"Thank you very much, Master," said Kreacher with a bow, and he retreated to stand in front of His Mistress' legs, his great pale eyes still fixed upon Mundungus with loathing.

"When you stripped this house of all the valuables you could find," Harry began again, "you took a bunch of stuff from the kitchen cupboard. There was a locket there." Harry's mouth was suddenly dry: He could sense the others' tension and excitement too. "What did you do with it?"

"Why?" asked Mundungus. "Is it valuable?"

"You've still got it!" cried Abigail.

"No, he hasn't," said Ron shrewdly. "He's wondering whether he should have asked more money for it."

"More?" said Mundungus. "That wouldn't have been effing difficult...bleedin' gave it away, di'n' I? No choice."

"What do you mean?"

"I was selling in Diagon Alley and she come up to me and asks if I've got a license for trading in magical artifacts. Bleedin' snoop. She was gonna fine me, but she took a fancy to the locket an' told me she'd take it and let me off that time, and to fink meself lucky."

"Who was this woman?" asked Harry.

"I dunno, some Ministry hag."

Mundungus considered for a moment, brow wrinkled.

"Little woman. Bow on top of 'er head."

He frowned and then added, "Looked like a toad."

Harry dropped his wand: It hit Mundungus on the nose and shot red sparks into his eyebrows, which ignited.

_"Aquamenti!" _screamed Hermione, and a jet of water streamed from her wand, engulfing a spluttering and choking Mundungus.

Harry looked up and saw his own shock reflected in Abigail's, Ron's, and Hermione's faces. The scars on the back of his right hand seemed to be tingling again.

**So guess who got a concussion and isn't supposed to be writing FanFiction?! xP Oh well.**

**Please, if anyone sees any annoying written mistakes, bear with me :{ My brain is processing slowly. Please let me know!**

At least this chapter was updated at a decent time :P I hope. Around two weeks?... yeah, yeah two weeks. Not too shabby, I think!


	10. Chapter 10

How Three Became Four

**BUM BUM BUM! :) Here we are readers, at the third and final book of the How Three Became Four series! I can't believe we've finally made it! I hope you're all excited! After the actionated, romanticised, wild adventures of Harry's sixth year, we now come to what would be his seventh, if not, per say, he was going on quite the interesting adventure ;) There will be even more action, excitement, and a lot more romance! We all love our new little addition to Harry's life! :) Like the first and second books, the story will consist of a mushed versiony-thingy of the seventh Harry Potter book and the seventh Harry Potter movie. I hope that you enjoy our "home-stretch story", and I hope you keep reviewing for me :) Ready? Set? Action.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or anything included or endorsed by Warner Brothers or J.K. Rowling :) I think that about covers it.**

10) Magic is Might

As August wore on, the square of unkempt grass in the middle of Grimmauld Place shriveled in the sun until it was brittle and brown. The inhabitants of number twelve were never seen by anyone in the surrounding houses, and nor was number twelve itself. The muggles who lived in Grimmauld Place had long since accepted the amusing mistake in the numbering that had caused number eleven to sit beside number thirteen.

And yet the square was now attracting a trickle of visitors who seemed to find the anomaly most intriguing. Barely a day passed without one or two people arriving in Grimmauld Place with no other purpose, or so it seemed, than to lean against the railings facing numbers eleven and thirteen, watching the join between the two houses. The lurkers were never the same two days running, although they all seemed to share a dislike for normal clothing. Most of the Londoners who passed them were used to eccentric dressers and took little notice, though occasionally one of them might glance back, wondering why anyone would wear cloaks in this heat.

The watchers seemed to be gleaning little satisfaction from their vigil. Occasionally one of them started forward excitedly, as if they had seen something interesting at last, only to fall back looking disappointed.

On the first day of September there were more people lurking in the square than ever before. Half a dozen men in long cloaks stood silent and watchful, gazing as ever at houses eleven and thirteen, but the thing for which they were waiting still appeared elusive. As evening drew in, bringing with it an unexpected gust of chilly rain for the first time in weeks, there occurred one of those inexplicable moments when they appeared to have seen something interesting. The man with the twisted face pointed and his closest companion, a podgy, pallid man, started forward, but a moment later they had relaxed into their previous state of inactivity, looking frustrated and disappointed.

Meanwhile, inside number twelve, Harry had just entered the hall. He had nearly lost his balance as he Apparated onto the top step just outside the front door, and thought that the Death Eaters might have caught a glimpse of his momentarily exposed elbow. Shutting the front door carefully behind him, he pulled off the Invisibility Cloak, draped it over his arm, and hurried along the gloomy hallway toward the door that led to the basement, a stolen copy of the Daily Prophet clutched in his hand.

The usual low whisper of _"Severus Snape"_ greeted him, the chill wind swept him, and his tongue rolled up for a moment.

"I didn't kill you," he said, once it had unrolled, then held his breath as the dusty jinx-figure exploded. He waited until he was halfway down the stairs to the kitchen, out of earshot of Mrs. Black and clear of the dust cloud, before calling, "I've got news, and you won't like it."

The kitchen was almost unrecognizable. Every surface now shone; Copper pots and pans had been burnished to a rosy glow; the wooden tabletop gleamed; the goblets and plates already laid for dinner glinted in the light from a merrily blazing fire, on which a cauldron was simmering. Nothing in the room, however, was more dramatically different than the house-elf who now came hurrying toward Harry, dressed in a snowy-white towel, his ear hair as clean and fluffy as cotton wool, Regulus's locket bouncing on his thin chest.

"Shoes off, if you please, Master Harry, and hands washed before dinner," croaked Kreacher, seizing the Invisibility Cloak and slouching off to hang it on a hook on the wall, beside a number of old-fashioned robes that had been freshly laundered.

"What's happened?" Ron asked apprehensively. He, Abigail, and Hermione had been pouring over a sheaf of scribbled notes and hand drawn maps that littered the end of the long kitchen table, but now they watched Harry as he strode toward them and threw down the newspaper on top of their scattered parchment.

A large picture of a familiar, hook-nosed, black-haired man stared up at them all, beneath a headline that read:

_SEVERUS SNAPE CONFIRMED AS HOGWARTS HEADMASTER_

"No!" said Ron and Hermione loudly. Abigail grimaced.

Hermione was quickest; she snatched up the newspaper and began to read the accompanying story out loud.

"Severus Snape, long-standing Potions master at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, was today appointed headmaster in the most important of several staffing changes at the ancient school. Following the resignation of the previous Muggle Studies teacher, Alecto Carrow will take over the post while her brother, Amycus, fills the position of Defense Against the Dark Arts professor."

"'I welcome the opportunity to uphold our finest Wizarding traditions and values-' Like committing murder and cutting off people's ears, I suppose! Snape, headmaster! Snape in Dumbledore's study- Merlin's pants!" she shrieked, making both Harry and Ron jump. She leapt up from the table and hurtled from the room, shouting as she went, "I'll be back in a minute!"

"'Merlin's pants'?" repeated Ron, looking amused. "She must be upset."

Abigail, her hand over her heart, looking startled, pulled the newspaper toward herself and perused the article about Snape.

"The other teachers won't stand for this," said Ron, reading over her shoulder. "McGonagall and Flitwick and Sprout all know the truth, they know how Dumbledore died. They won't accept Snape as headmaster. And who are these Carrows?"

"Death Eaters," said Harry. "There are pictures of them inside. They were at the top of the tower when Snape killed Dumbledore, so it's all friends together. And," Harry went on bitterly, drawing up a chair, "I can't see that the other teachers have got any choice but to stay. If the Ministry and Voldemort are behind Snape, it'll be a choice between staying and teaching, or a nice few years in Azkaban- and that's if they're lucky. I reckon they'll stay to try and protect the students."

Kreacher came bustling to the table with a large curcen in his hands, and ladled out soup into pristine bowls, whistling between his teeth as he did so.

"Thanks, Kreacher," said Harry, flipping over the Prophet so as not to have to look at Snape's face. "Well, at least we know exactly where Snape is now."

He began to spoon soup into his mouth. The quality of Kreacher's cooking had improved dramatically ever since he had been given Regulus's locket: Today's French onion was as good as Harry had ever tasted.

"There are still a load of Death Eaters watching this house," he told Abigail and Ron as he ate, "more than usual. It's like they're hoping we'll march out carrying our school trunks and head off for the Hogwarts Express."

Ron glanced at his watch.

"I've been thinking about that all day. It left nearly six hours ago. Weird, not being on it, isn't it?"

In his mind's eye Harry seemed to see the scarlet steam engine as he and Ron had once followed it by air, shimmering between fields and hills, a rippling scarlet caterpillar. He was sure Ginny, Neville, and Luna were sitting together at this moment, perhaps wondering where he, Abigail, Ron, and Hermione were, or debating how best to undermine Snape's new regime.

"They nearly saw me coming back in just now," Harry said, "I landed badly on the top step, and the Cloak slipped."

"I do that every time. Oh, here she is," Ron added, craning around in his seat to watch Hermione reentering the kitchen. "And what in the name of Merlin's most baggy Y-Fronts was that about?"

"I remembered this," Hermione panted.

She was carrying a large, framed picture, which she now lowered to the floor before seizing her small, beaded bag from the kitchen sideboard. Abigail gasped, her eyes shining with knowing.

"Of course!" She exclaimed, jumping up. "Hermione, you clever witch, you!"

Hermione yanked open her beaded bag. Racing over, Abigail proceeded to help Hermione quickly force the painting inside and despite the fact that it was patently too large to fit inside the tiny bag, within a few seconds it had vanished, like so much ease, into the bag's capacious depths.

"Phineas Nigellus," Hermione explained as she threw the bag onto the kitchen table with the usual sonorous, clanking crash.

"Sorry?" said Ron, but Harry understood. The painted image of Phineas Nigellus Black was able to travel between his portrait in Grimmauld Place and the one that hung in the headmaster's office at Hogwarts: the circular cower-top room where Snape was no doubt sitting right now, in triumphant possession of Dumbledore's collection of delicate, silver magical instruments, the stone Pensieve, the Sorting Hat and, unless it had been moved elsewhere, the sword of Gryffindor.

"Snape could send Phineas Nigellus to look inside this house for him," Abigail explained to Ron as the girls resumed their seats. "But let him try it now, all Phineas Nigellus will be able to see is the inside of Hermione's handbag."

"Good thinking!" said Ron to Hermione, looking impressed.

"Thank you," smiled Hermione, pulling her soup toward her. "So, Harry, what else happened today?"

"Nothing," said Harry. "Watched the Ministry entrance for seven hours. No sign of her. Saw your dad though, Ron. He looks fine."

Ron nodded his appreciation of this news. The had agreed that it was far too dangerous to try and communicate with Mr. Weasley while he walked in and out of the Ministry, because he was always surrounded by other Ministry workers. It was, however, reassuring to catch these glimpses of him, even if he did look very strained and anxious.

"Dad always told us most Ministry people use the Floo Network to get to work," Ron said. "That's why we haven't seen Umbridge, she'd never walk, she'd think she's too important."

"And what about that funny old witch and that little wizard in the navy robes?" Hermione asked.

"Oh yeah, the bloke from Magical Maintenance," said Ron.

"How do you know he works for Magical Maintenance?" Abigail asked curiously.

"Dad said everyone from Magical Maintenance wears navy blue robes."

"But you never told us that!" Abigail cried.

Hermione dropped her soupspoon and pulled toward her the sheaf of notes and maps that she and Ron had been examining when Harry had entered the kitchen.

"There's nothing in here about navy blue robes, nothing!" she said, flipping feverishly through the pages.

"Well, does it really matter?"

"Ron, it all matters! If we're going to get into the Ministry and not give ourselves away when they're bound to be on the lookout for intruders, every little detail matters! We've been over and over this, I mean, what's the point of all these reconnaissance trips if you aren't even bothering to tell us-"

"Blimey, Hermione, I forget one little thing-"

"You do realize, don't you, that there's probably no more dangerous place in the whole world for us to be right now than the Ministry of-"

"I think we should do it tomorrow," said Harry.

Hermione stopped dead, her jaw hanging; Ron choked a little over his soup. Abigail's eyes nearly popped out of her head.

"Tomorrow?" repeated Hermione. "You aren't serious, Harry?"

"I am," said Harry. "I don't think we're going to be much better prepared than we are now even if we skulk around the Ministry entrance for another month. The longer we put it off, the farther away that locket could be. There's already a good chance Umbridge has chucked it away; the thing doesn't open."

"Unless," said Ron, "she's found a way of opening it and she's now possessed."

"Wouldn't make any difference to her, she was so evil in the first place," Harry shrugged.

Hermione was biting her lip, deep in thought. Abigail looked between them, watching,

"We know everything important," Harry went on, addressing Hermione. "We know they've stopped Apparition in and out of the Ministry; We know only the most senior Ministry members are allowed to connect their homes to the Floo Network now, because Ron heard those two Unspeakables complaining about it. And we know roughly where Umbridge's office is, because of what you heard the bearded bloke saying to his mate-"

"'I'll be up on level one, Dolores wants to see me,'" Hermione recited immediately.

"Exactly," said Harry. "And we know you get in using those funny coins, or tokens, or whatever they are, because I saw that witch borrowing one from her friend-"

"But we haven't got any!"

"If the plan works, we will have," Harry continued calmly.

"I don't know, Harry, I don't know ... There are an awful lot of things that could go wrong, so much relies on chance..."

"That'll be true even if we spend another three months preparing," said Harry. "It's time to act."

He could tell from Ron's and Hermione's faces that they were scared; he was not particularly confident himself, and yet he was sure the time had come to put their plan into operation. Abigail just looked a bit dazed, obviously unsure yet of who's reasoning was really more effective.

They had spent the previous four weeks taking it in turns to don the Invisibility Cloak and spy on the official entrance to the Ministry, which Ron, thanks to Mr. Weasley, had known since childhood. They had tailed Ministry workers on their way in, eavesdropped on their conversations, and learned by careful observation which of them could be relied upon to appear, alone, at the same time every day. Occasionally there had been a chance to sneak a _Daily Prophet _out of somebody's briefcase. Slowly they had built up the sketchy maps and notes now stacked in front of them.

"All right," said Ron slowly, "let's say we go for it tomorrow... I think it should just be me and Harry."

"Oh, don't start that again!" sighed Hermione.

"I thought we'd settled this," Abigail said, pinching the bridge of her nose tiredly.

"It's one thing hanging around the entrances under the Cloak, but this is different. Hermione," Ron jabbed a finger at a copy of the Daily Prophet dated ten days previously. "You're on the list of Muggle-borns who didn't present themselves for interrogation!"

"And you're supposed to be dying of spattergroit at the Burrow! If anyone shouldn't go, it's Harry, he's got a ten-thousand-Galleon price on his head-"

"Fine, I'll stay here," said Harry. "Let me know if you ever defeat Voldemort, won't you?"

As Ron and Hermione laughed, and even Abigail chuckled weakly, pain shot through the scar on Harry's forehead. His hand jumped to it. He saw Hermione's eyes narrow, and he tried to pass off the movement by brushing his hair out of his eyes.

"Well, if all four of us go we'll have to Disapparate separately," Ron was saying. "We can't all fit under the Cloak anymore."

Harry's scar was becoming more and more painful. He stood up. At once, Kreacher hurried forward.

"Master has not finished his soup, would master prefer the savory stew, or else the treacle tart to which Master is so partial?"

"Thanks, Kreacher, but I'll be back in a minute- er- bathroom."

Aware that Hermione was watching him suspiciously, Harry hurried up the stairs to the hall and then to the first landing, where he dashed into the bathroom and bolted the door again. Grunting with pain, he slumped over the black basin with its taps in the form of open-mouthed serpents and closed his eyes...

He was gliding along a twilit street. The buildings on either side of him had high, timbered gables; they looked like gingerbread houses. He approached one of them, then saw the whiteness of his own long-fingered hand against the door. He knocked. He felt a mounting excitement...

The door opened: A laughing woman stood there. Her face fell as she looked into Harry's face: humor gone, terror replacing it...

"Gregorovitch?" said a high, cold voice.

She shook her head: She was trying to close the door. A white hand held it steady, prevented her shutting him out...

"I want Gregorovitch."

"Er wohnt hier nicht mehr!" she cried, shaking her head. "He no live here! He no live here! I know him not!"

Abandoning the attempt to close the door, she began to back away down the dark hall, and Harry followed, gliding toward her, and his long-fingered hand had drawn his wand.

"Where is he?"

"Das weib ich nicht! He move! I know not, I know not!"

He raised his hand. She screamed. Two young children came running into the hall. She tried to shield them with her arms. There was a flash of green light...

"Harry! HARRY!"

He opened his eyes; he had sunk to the floor. Abigail was pounding on the door, sounding terrified.

"Harry! Harry, open up!"

He had shouted out, he knew it. He got up and unbolted the door; Abigail toppled inside at once, throwing her arms around Harry's middle and hugging him tightly. Hermione and Ron were right behind her; Hermione looked around suspiciously, and Ron looked unnerved as he pointed his wand into the corners of the chilly bathroom.

"What happened?" Abigail asked, pulled back. "Are you alright?"

"What were you doing?" asked Hermione sternly.

"What d'you think I was doing?" asked Harry with feeble bravado.

"You were yelling your head off!" said Ron.

"Oh yeah... I must've dozed off or..."

"Harry, please don't insult our intelligence," said Hermione, taking deep breaths. "We know your scar hurt downstairs, and you're white as a sheet."

Harry sat down on the edge of the bath. Abigail sank down next to him, watching him with concern. She took his hand, squeezing it.

"Fine. I've just seen Voldemort murdering a woman. By now he's probably killed her whole family. And he didn't need to. It was Cedric all over again, they were just there..."

"Harry, you aren't supposed to let this happen anymore!" Hermione cried, her voice echoing through the bathroom. "Dumbledore wanted you to use Occlumency! _He_ thought the connection was dangerous- Voldemort can use it, Harry! What good is it to watch him kill and torture, how can it help?"

"Because it means I know what he's doing," said Harry.

"So you're not even going to try to shut him out?"

"Hermione, I can't. You know I'm lousy at Occlumency. I never got the hang of it."

"You never really tried!" she said hotly. "I don't get it, Harry- do you like having this special connection or relationship or what- whatever-"

"Hermione," whispered Abigail warningly, sounding shocked, but Hermione already looked pale as Harry really looked up at her. She faltered under the look he gave her as he stood up.

"Like it?" he said quietly. "Would you like it?"

"I- no- I'm sorry, Harry. I just didn't mean-"

"I hate it, I hate the fact that he can get inside me, that I have to watch him when he's most dangerous. But I'm going to use it."

"Dumbledore-"

"Forget Dumbledore. This is my choice, nobody else's. I want to know why he's after Gregorovitch."

"Who?"

"He's a foreign wandmaker," said Harry. "He made Krum's wand and Krum reckons he's brilliant."

"But according to you," said Ron, "Voldemort's got Ollivander locked up somewhere. If he's already got a wandmaker, what does he need another one for?"

"Maybe he agrees with Krum, maybe he thinks Gregorovitch is better... or else he thinks Gregorovitch will be able to explain what my wand did when he was chasing me, because Ollivander didn't know."

Harry glanced into the cracked, dusty mirror and saw Ron and Hermione exchanging skeptical looks behind his back.

"Harry, you keep talking about what your wand did," said Hermione, "but you made it happen! Why are you so determined not to take responsibility for your own power?"

"Because I know it wasn't me! And so does Voldemort, Hermione! We both know what really happened!"

They glared at each other; Harry knew that he had not convinced Hermione and that she was marshaling counterarguments, against both his theory on his wand and the fact that he was permitting himself to see into Voldemort's mind. To his relief, Abigail intervened.

"Drop it," she told Hermione grimly, standing from the tub. "It's up to him. And if we're going to the Ministry tomorrow, we should go over the plan."

Reluctantly, as the other three could tell, Hermione let the matter rest, though Harry was quite sure she would attack again at the first opportunity. In the meantime, they returned to the basement kitchen, where Kreacher served them all stew and treacle tart.

They did not get to bed until late that night, after spending hours going over and over their plan until they could recite it, word perfect, to each other. Harry, who was now sleeping in Sirius's room, lay in bed with his wandlight trained on the old photograph of his father, Sirius, Lupin, and Pettigrew, and muttered the plan to himself for another ten minutes. He could hear Abigail moving in her sleeping as she slept in her father's old room; he listened longingly to the rustling, wishing she was with him- he needed someone to talk to, someone to go over with his thoughts with. He left her alone, of course, and as he extinguished his wand, he was thinking not of Polyjuice Potion, Puking Pastilles, or the navy blue robes of Magical Maintenance; he thought of Gregorovitch the wandmaker, and how long he could hope to remain hidden while Voldemort sought him so determinedly.

Dawn seemed to follow midnight with indecent haste.

"You look terrible," was Ron's greeting as he entered the room to wake Harry.

"Not for long," said Harry, yawning.

They found Abigail and Hermione downstairs in the kitchen. They were being served coffee and hot rolls by Kreacher. Hermione was wearing the slightly manic expression that Harry associated with exam review.

"Robes," she said under her breath, acknowledging their presence with a nervous nod and continuing to poke around in her beaded bag, "Polyjuice Potion... Invisibility Cloak... Decoy Detonators... You should each take a couple just in case... Puking Pastilles, Nosebleed Nougat, Extendable Ears..."

They gulped down their breakfast, then set off upstairs, Kreacher bowing them out and promising to have a steak-and-kidney pie ready for them when they returned.

"Bless him," said Ron fondly, "and when you think I used to fantasize about cutting off his head and sticking it on the wall."

They made their way onto the front step with immense caution. They could see a couple of puffy-eyed Death Eaters watching the house from across the misty square.

Hermione Disapparated with Ron first, then, after waiting a few moments, Abigail took Harry's hand, sending them off.

After the usual brief spell of darkness and near suffocation, Harry found himself in the tiny alleyway where the first phase of their plan was scheduled to take place. It was as yet deserted, except for a couple of large bins; the first Ministry workers did not usually appear here until at least eight o'clock.

"Right then," said Hermione, checking her watch and the two appeared. "She ought to be here in about five minutes. When I've Stunned her-"

"Hermione, we know," said Ron sternly. "And I thought we were supposed to open the door before she got here?"

Hermione squealed.

"I nearly forgot! Stand back-"

She pointed her wand at the padlocked and heavily graffitied fire door beside them, which burst open with a crash. The dark corridor behind it led, as they knew from their careful scouting trips, into an empty theater. Hermione pulled the door back toward her, to make it look as thought it was still closed.

"And now," she said, turning, back to face the other three in the alleyway, "we put on the Cloak again-"

"-and we wait," Ron finished, throwing it over Hermione's head like a blanket over a birdcage and rolling his eyes at Harry and Abigail.

Little more than a minute later, there was a tiny pop and a little Ministry witch with flyaway gray hair Apparated feet from them, blinking a little in the sudden brightness: the sun had just come out from behind a cloud. She barely had time to enjoy the unexpected warmth, however, before Hermione's silent Stunning Spell hit her in the chest and she toppled over.

"Nicely done, Hermione," said Ron, emerging behind a bin beside the theater door as Harry shrugged the Cloak off of Abigail and himself. Together they carried the little witch into the dark passageway that led backstage. Hermione plucked a few hairs from the witch's head and added them to a flask of muddy Polyjuice Potion she had taken from the beaded bag. Ron was rummaging through the little witch's handbag.

"She's Mafalda Hopkirk," he said, reading a small card that identified their victim as an assistant in the Improper Use of Magic Office. "You'd better take this, Hermione, and here are the tokens."

He passed her several small golden coins, all embossed with the letters _M.O.M. _which he had taken from the witch's purse.

Hermione drank the Polyjuice Potion, which was now a pleasant heliotrope color, and within seconds stood before them, the double of Mafalda Hopkirk. As she removed Mafalda's spectacles and put them on, Harry checked his watch.

"We're running late, Mr. Magical Maintenance will be here any second."

They hurried to close the door on the real Mafalda; Harry and Ron threw the Invisibility Cloak over themselves and Abigail, but Hermione remained in view, waiting. Seconds later there was another pop, and a small, ferrety looking wizard appeared before them.

"Oh, hello, Mafalda."

"Hello!" said Hermione in a quavery voice, "How are you today?"

"Not so good, actually," replied the little wizard, who looked thoroughly downcast.

As Hermione and the wizard headed for the main road, the other three crept along behind them.

"I'm sorry to hear you're under the weather," said Hermione, talking firmly over the little wizard and he tried to expound upon his problems; it was essential to stop him from reaching the street. "Here, have a sweet."

"Eh? Oh, no thanks-"

"I insist!" said Hermione aggressively, shaking the bag of pastilles in his face. Looking rather alarmed, the little wizard took one.

The effect was instantaneous. The moment the pastille touched his tongue, the little wizard started vomiting so hard that he did not even notice as Hermione yanked a handful of hairs from the top of his head.

"Oh dear!" she said, as he splattered the alley with sick. "Perhaps you'd better take the day off!"

"No- no!" He choked and retched, trying to continue on his way despite being unable to walk straight. "I must- today- must go-"

"But that's just silly!" said Hermione, alarmed. "You can't go to work in this state- I think you ought to go to St. Mungo's and get them to sort you out."

The wizard had collapsed, heaving, onto all fours, still trying to crawl toward the main street.

"You simply can't go to work like this!" cried Hermione.

At last he seemed to accept the truth of her words. Using a reposed Hermione to claw his way back into a standing position, he turned on the spot and vanished, leaving nothing behind but the bag Ron had snatched from his hand as he went and some flying chunks of vomit.

"Urgh," said Hermione, holding up the skirt of her robe to avoid the puddles of sick. "It would have made much less mess to Stun him too."

"Yeah," said Ron, emerging from under the cloak holding the wizard's bag, "but I still think a whole pile of unconscious bodies would have drawn more attention. Keen on his job, though, isn't he? Chuck us the hair and the potion, then."

Within two minutes, Ron stood before them, as small and ferrety as the sick wizard, and wearing the navy blue robes that had been folded in his bag.

"Weird he wasn't wearing them today, wasn't it, seeing how much he wanted to go? Anyway, I'm Reg Cattermole, according to the label in the back."

"Now wait here," Hermione told Harry and Abigail, who were still under the Invisibility Cloak, "and we'll be back with some hairs for you two."

They had to wait ten, long, silent minutes, but it seemed much longer to Harry and Abiga, skulking alone in the sick-splattered alleyway beside the door concealing the Stunned Mafalda. Finally Ron and Hermione reappeared.

"We don't know who they are," Hermione said, passing Harry several curly black hairs and giving Abigail several short red ones, "but the husband's wife has taken him home with a dreadful nosebleed! Here, Harry, he's pretty tall, you'll need bigger robes..."

She pulled out a set of the old robes Kreacher had laundered for them, gave then both their sets, and Harry and Abigail retired to take the potions and change.

Once the painful transformation was complete Harry was more than six feet tall and, from what he could tell from his well-muscled arms, powerfully built. He also had a beard. Abigail was a short-haired, red-headed woman, and was even shorter than her own five-foot-two, with square-lensed glasses and freckles. Stowing the Invisibility Cloak and his glasses inside his new robes, Harry and Abigail rejoined the other two.

"Blimey, that's scary," said Ron, looking up at Harry, who now towered over him.

"Take one of Mafalda's tokens, each of you," Hermione told Harry and Abigail, "and let's go, it's nearly nine."

They stepped out of the alleyway together. Fifty yards along the crowded pavement there were spiked black railings flanking two flights of stairs, one labeled GENTLEMEN, the other LADIES.

"See you in a moment, then," said Hermione nervously, and she nervously gripped Abigail's arm before tottering them both off down the steps to LADIES, Abigail throwing an anxious look over her shoulder at the boys. Harry and Ron joined a number of oddly dressed men descending into what appeared to be an ordinary underground public toilet, tiled in grimy black and white.

"Morning, Reg!" called another wizard in navy blue robes as he let himself into a cubicle by inserting his golden token into a slot in the door. "Blooming pain in the bum, this, eh? Forcing us all to get to work this way! Who are they expecting to turn up, Harry Potter?"

The wizard roared with laughter at his own wit. Ron gave a forced chuckle.

"Yeah," he said, "stupid, isn't it?"

And he and Harry let themselves into adjoining cubicles.

To Harry's left and right came the sound of flushing. He crouched down and peered through the gap at the bottom of the cubicle, just in time to see a pair of booted feet climbing into the toilet next door. He looked left and saw Ron blinking at him.

"We have to flush ourselves in?" he whispered.

"Looks like it," Harry whispered back; his voice came out deep and gravelly.

They both stood up. Feeling exceptionally foolish, Harry clambered into the toilet.

He knew at once that he had done the right thing; thought he appeared to be standing in water, his shoes, feet, and robes remained quite dry. He reached up, pulled the chain, and next moment had zoomed down a short chute, emerging out of a fireplace into the Ministry of Magic.

He got up clumsily; there was a lot more of his body than he was accustomed to. The great Atrium seemed darker than Harry remembered it. Previously a golden fountain had filled the center of the hall, casting shimmering spots of light over the polished wooden floor and walls. Now a gigantic statue of black stone dominated the scene. It was rather frightening, this vast sculpture of a witch and a wizard sitting on ornately carved thrones, looking down at the Ministry workers toppling out of fireplaces below them. Engraved in foot-high letters at the base of the statue were the words _MAGIC IS MIGHT._

Harry received a heavy blow on the back of the legs. Another wizard had just flown out of the fireplace behind him.

"Out of the way, can't y- oh, sorry, Runcorn."

Clearly frightened, the balding wizard hurried away. Apparently the man who Harry was impersonating, Runcorn, was intimidating.

"Psst!" said a voice, and he looked around to see a two whispy little witches and the ferrety wizard from Magical Maintenance gesturing to him from over beside the statue. Harry hastened to join them.

"You got in all right, then?" Hermione whispered to Harry.

"No, he's still stuck in the bog," said Ron.

"Oh, very funny..."

"It's horrible, isn't it?" Abigail said to Harry, who was staring up at the statue. "Have you seen what they're sitting on?"

Harry looked more closely and realized that what he had thought were decoratively carved thrones were actually mounds of carved humans: hundreds and hundreds of naked bodies, men, women, and children, all with rather stupid, ugly faces, twisted and pressed together to support the weight of the handsomely robed wizards.

"Muggles," whispered Hermione, grimacing. "In their rightful place." She took a deep breath as Abigail patted her shoulder comfortingly. "Come on, let's get going."

They joined the stream of witches and wizards moving toward the golden gates at the end of the hall, looking around as surreptitiously as possible, but there was no sign of the distinctive figure of Dolores Umbridge. They passed through the gates and into a smaller hall, where queues were forming in front of twenty golden grilles housing as many lifts. They had barely joined the nearest one when a voice said, "Cattermole!"

They looked around: Harry's stomach turned over. One of the Death Eaters who had witnessed Dumbledore's death was striding toward them. The Ministry workers beside them fell silent, their eyes downcast; Harry could feel fear rippling through them.

The man's scowling, slightly brutish face was somehow at odds with his magnificent, sweeping robes, which were embroidered with much gold thread. Someone in the crowd around the lifts called sycophantically, "Morning, Yaxley!" Yaxley ignored them.

"I requested somebody from Magical Maintenance to sort out my office, Cattermole. It's still raining in there."

Ron looked around as though hoping somebody else would intervene, but nobody spoke.

"Raining... in your office? That's- that's not good, is it?"

Ron gave a nervous laugh. Yaxley's eyes widened.

"You think it's funny, Cattermole, do you?"

A pair of witches broke away from the queue for the lift and bustled off.

"No," said Ron, "no, of course-"

"You realize that I am on my way downstairs to interrogate your wife, Cattermole? In fact, I'm quite surprised you're not down there holding her hand while she waits. Already given her up as a bad job, have you? Probably wise. Be sure and marry a pureblood next time."

Hermione had let out a little squeak of horror; Abigail looked sickened. Yaxley looked at them. Blushing, Hermione coughed feebly and turned away. Abigail quickly looked down, cropped red hair falling over her eyes.

"I- I-" stammered Ron.

"But if my wife were accused of being a Mudblood," said Yaxley, "-not that any woman I married would ever be mistaken for such filth- and the Head of Department of Magical Law Enforcement needed a job doing, I would make it my priority to do this job, Cattermole. Do you understand me?"

"Yes," whispered Ron.

"Then attend to it, Cattermole, and if my office is not completely dry within an hour, your wife's Blood Status will be in even greater doubt than it is now."

The golden grille before them clattered open. With a nod and unpleasant smile to Harry, who was evidently expected to appreciate this treatment of Cattermole, Yaxley swept away toward another lift. Harry, Ron, and Hermione entered theirs, but nobody followed them: It was as if they were infectious. The grilles shut with a clang and the lift began to move upward.

"What am I going to do?" Ron asked the other two at once; he looked stricken. "If I don't turn up, my wife-"

"Ron, you don't have a wife!" Abigail hissed, tone underlined with exasperation.

"I mean, Cattermole's wife-"

"We'll come with you, we should stick together-" began Harry, but Ron shook his head feverishly.

"That's mental, we haven't got much time. You three find Umbridge, I'll go and sort out Yaxley's office- but how do I stop a raining?"

"Try Finite Incantatem," said Hermione at once, "that should stop the rain if it's a hex or curse; if it doesn't something's gone wrong with an Atmospheric Charm, which will be more difficult to fix, so as an interim measure try Impervius to protect his belongings-"

"Say it again, slowly-" said Ron, searching his pockets desperately for a quill, but at that moment the lift juddered to a halt. A disembodied female voice said, "Level four, Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, incorporating Beast, Being, and Spirit Divisions, Goblin Liaison Office, and Pest Advisory Bureau," and the grilles slid open again, admitting a couple of wizards and several pale violet paper airplanes that fluttered around the lamp in the ceiling of the lift.

"Morning, Albert," said a bushily whiskered man, smiling at Harry. "Patrica," he nodded politely at Abigail; she smiled weakly back. As the man turned away, Harry glanced over at Abigail, Ron, and Hermione as the lift creaked upward once more; Hermione was now whispering frantic instructions to Ron. The wizard leaned toward Harry, leering, and muttering "Dirk Cresswell, eh? From Goblin Liaison? Nice one, Albert. I'm pretty confident I'll get his job now!"

He winked. Harry smiled back, hoping that this would suffice. The lift stopped; the grilles opened once more.

"Level two, Department of Magical Law Enforcement, including the Improper Use of Magic Office, Auror Headquarters, and Wizengamot Administration Services," said the disembodied witch's voice.

Harry saw Hermione give Ron a little push and he hurried out of the lift, followed by the other wizards, leaving the remaining three alone. The moment the golden door had closed Hermione said, very fast, "Actually, Harry, I think I'd better go after him, I don't think he knows what he's doing and if he gets caught the whole thing-"

"Level one, Minister of Magic and Support Staff."

The golden grilles slid apart again and Hermione gasped; Abigail grabbed her wrist, squeezing it in warning. Four people stood before them, two of them deep in conversation: a long-haired wizard wearing magnificent robes of black and gold, and a squat, toadlike witch wearing a velvet bow in her short hair and clutching a clipboard to her chest.****

I'm really sorry about how long this took, but my computer just got fixed from another hard drive breakage. It's had some troubles working in the past, and it broke a couple of weeks ago, right before I went on a short trip to Ohio (WGI competition- so fun!), so I couldn't work on it on the plane. It took another week and a half or so to actually get the thing running again, but it's back up now, so hopefully updates will run smoothly again.

Please remember to review!


	11. Chapter 11

How Three Became Four

**BUM BUM BUM! :) Here we are readers, at the third and final book of the How Three Became Four series! I can't believe we've finally made it! I hope you're all excited! After the actionated, romanticised, wild adventures of Harry's sixth year, we now come to what would be his seventh, if not, per say, he was going on quite the interesting adventure ;) There will be even more action, excitement, and a lot more romance! We all love our new little addition to Harry's life! :) Like the first and second books, the story will consist of a mushed versiony-thingy of the seventh Harry Potter book and the seventh Harry Potter movie. I hope that you enjoy our "home-stretch story", and I hope you keep reviewing for me :) Ready? Set? Action.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or anything included or endorsed by Warner Brothers or J.K. Rowling :) I think that about covers it.**

11) The Muggle-Born Registration Commission

"Ah, Mafalda!" said Umbridge, looking at Hermione. "Travers sent you, did he?"

"Y-yes," squeaked Hermione.

"Good, you'll do perfectly well." Umbridge spoke to the wizard in black and gold. "That's that problem solved. Minister, if Mafalda can be spared for record-keeping we shall be able to start straightaway." She consulted her clipboard. "Ten people today and one of them the wife of a Ministry employee! Tut, tut... even here, in the heart of the Ministry!" She stepped into the lift beside Hermione, as did the two wizards who had been listening to Umbridge's conversation with the Minister. "We'll go straight down, Mafalda, you'll find everything you need in the courtroom. Good morning, Albert, Patricia, aren't the two of you getting out?"

"Yes, of course," said Harry in Runcorn's deep voice.

Harry grabbed Abigail's hand and pulled her out of the life. The golden grilles clanged shut behind them. Glancing over his shoulder, Harry saw Hermione's anxious face sinking back out of sight, a tall wizard on either side of her, Umbridge's velvet hair-bow level with her shoulder.

"What brings you here, Runcorn?" asked the new Minister of Magic. His long black hair and beard were streaked with silver and a great overhanging forehead shadowed his glinting eyes, putting Harry in the mind of a crab looking out from beneath a rock.

"Needed a quick word with," Harry hesitated for a fraction of a second, "Arthur Weasley. Someone said he was up on level one."

"Ah," said Plum Thicknesse. "Has he been caught having contact with an Undesirable?"

"No," said Harry, his throat dry. "No, nothing like that."

"Ah, well. It's only a matter of time," said Thicknesse. "If you ask me, the blood traitors are as bad as the Mudbloods. Oh, good morning Patricia, you're looking as lovely as ever."

"G-good morning, Minister," Abigail said quickly.

"Shouldn't you be on level three?" Thicknesse inquired. "I was informed that three people were absent in your division. I supposed you would be there helping make up these absences."

"Well," Abigail grasped at straws, "Albert just... asked me to come with him to talk to Mr. Weasley. He's a good friend of mine, you see. Wouldn't want to make him uncomfortable and... all that."

"Yes, of course," the Minister agreed; Abigail looked immensely relieved. "Well, I really must be going. Good day, Runcorn, Patricia."

"Good day, Minister." Harry answered.

They watched Thicknesse march away along the thickly carpeted corridor. The moment the Minister had passed out of sight, Harry tugged the Invisibility Cloak out from under his heavy black cloak, threw it over Abigail and himself, and set off along the corridor in the opposite direction. Runcorn was so tall that Harry was forced to stoop to make sure his big feet were hidden.

Panic pulsed in the pit of his stomach. As they passed gleaming wooden door after gleaming wooden door, each bearing a small plaque with the owner's name and occupation upon it, the might of the Ministry, its complexity, its impenetrability, seemed to force itself upon him so that the plan he had been carefully concocting with Abigail, Ron, and Hermione over the past four weeks seemed laughably childish. They had concentrated all their efforts on getting inside without being detected: They had not given a moment's thought to what they would do if they were forced to separate. Now Hermione was stuck in court proceedings, which would undoubtedly last hours; Ron was struggling to do magic that Harry was sure was beyond him, a woman's liberty possibly depending on the outcome, and he, Harry, and Abigail were wandering around on the top floor when they knew perfectly well that their quarry had just gone down in the lift.

He stopped walking, leaned against a wall, and tried to decide what to do, Abigail standing silently next to him. The silence pressed upon them: There was no bustling or talk or swift footsteps here; the purple-carpeted corridors were as hushed as though the Muffliato charm had been cast over the place.

_Her office must be up here,_ Harry thought.

It seemed most unlikely that Umbridge would keep her jewelry in her office, but on the other hand it seemed foolish not to search it to make sure. He therefore tapped Abigail's shoulder, made a 'Follow me' gesture with his hand, and they set off along the corridor again, passing nobody but a frowning wizard who was murmuring instructions to a quill that floated in front of him, scribbling on a trail of parchment.

Now paying attention to the names on the doors, Harry turned a corner. Halfway along the next corridor he emerged into a wide, open space where a dozen witches and wizards sat in rows at small desks not unlike school desks, though much more highly polished and free from graffiti. Harry paused to watch them, for the effect was quite mesmerizing. They were all waving and twiddling their wands in unison, and squares of colored paper were flying in every direction like little pink kites. After a few seconds, Harry realized that there was a rhythm to the proceedings, that the papers all formed the same pattern and after a few more seconds he realized what he was watching was the creation of pamphlets- that the paper squares were pages, which, when assembled, folded and magicked into place, fell into neat stacks beside each witch or wizard.

Harry and Abigail crept closer, although the workers were so intent on what they were doing that Harry doubted they would notice carpet-muffled footsteps, and he slid a completed pamphlet from the pile beside a young witch. Abigail peered over his broad shoulder to look as he examined it beneath the Invisibility Cloak. Its pink cover was emblazoned with a golden title:

MUDBLOODS AND THE DANGERS THEY POSE TO A PEACEFUL PURE-BLOOD SOCIETY

Beneath the title was a picture of a red rose with a simpering face in the middle of its petals, being strangled by a green weed with fangs and a scowl. There was no author's name upon the pamphlet, but again, the scars on the back of his right hand seemed to tingle as he examined it. Then the young witch beside him confirmed his suspicion as she said, still waving and twirling her wand, "Will the old hag be interrogating Mudbloods all day, does anyone know?"

"Careful," said the wizard beside her, glancing around nervously; one of his pages slipped and fell to the floor.

"What, has she got magic ears as well as an eye, now?"

The witch glanced toward the shining mahogany door facing the space full of pamphlet-makers; Abigail quickly put her hand over her mouth to stiffle her gasp as Harry looked too, and the rage reared in him like a snake. Where there might have been a peephole on a Muggle front door, a large, round eye with a bright blue iris had been set into the wood- an eye that was shockingly familiar to anybody who knew Alastor Moody.

For a split second Harry forgot where he was and what he was doing there: He even forgot that he was invisible. He strode straight over to the door, Abigail stumbling quickly to keep up with his gate, to examine the eye. It was not moving. It gazed blindly upward, frozen. The plaque beneath it read:

_Dolores Umbridge_

Senior Undersecretary to the Minister

Below that a slightly shinier new plaque read:

_Head of the Muggle-Born Registration Commission_

Harry looked back at the dozen pamphlet-makers: Though they were intent upon their work, he could hardly suppose that they would not notice if the door of an empty office opened in front of them. He therefore withdrew from an inner pocket an odd object with little waving legs and a rubber-bulbed horn for a body. Crouching down beneath the Cloak, he placed the Decoy Detonator on the ground.

It scuttled away at once through the legs of the witches and wizards in front of him. A few moments later, during which Harry waited with his hand upon the doorknob, there came a loud bang and a great deal of acrid smoke billowed from a corner. The young witch in the front row shrieked: Pink pages flew everywhere as she and her fellows jumped up, looking around for the source of the commotion. Harry turned the doorknob, pulled Abigail into Umbridge's office, and closed the door behind them.

He felt he had stepped back in time. The room was exactly like Umbridge's office at Hogwarts: Lace draperies, doilies and dried flowers covered every surface. The walls bore the same ornamental plates, each featuring a highly colored, beribboned kitten, gamboling and frisking with sickening cuteness. The desk was covered with a flouncy, flowered cloth. Behind Mad-eye's eye, a telescopic attachment enabled Umbridge to spy on the workers on the other side of the door. Harry took a look through it and saw that they were all still gathered around the Decoy Detonator. Abigail stood, wide-eyed with nervousness, by the door as he wrenched the telescope out of the door, leaving a hole behind, pulled the magical eyeball out of it, and placed it in his pocket. Then he turned to face the room again, raised his wand, and murmured, _"Accio Locket."_

Nothing happened, but he had not expected it to; no doubt Umbridge knew all about protective charms and spells. He therefore hurried behind her desk and began pulling open all the drawers. Abigail rushed forward to assist him, her hands shaky. They saw quills and notebooks and Spellotape; enchanted paper clips that coiled snakelike from their drawer and had to be beaten back; a fussy little lace box full of spare hair bows and clips; but no sign of a locket.

There was a filing cabinet behind the desk: Harry set to searching it. Like Filch's filing cabinet at Hogwarts, it was full of folders, each labeled with a name. It was not until Harry reached the bottommost drawer that he saw something to distract him from the search: Mr. Weasley's file.

He pulled it out and opened it.

_Arthur Weasley_

Blood Status: Pureblood, but with unacceptable pro-Muggle leanings. Known member of the Order of the Phoenix.

Family: Wife (pureblood), seven children, two youngest at Hogwarts. NB: Youngest son currently at home, seriously ill, Ministry inspectors have confirmed.

Security Status: TRACKED. All movements are being monitored. Strong likelihood Undesirable No. 1 will contact (has stayed with Weasley family previously)

"Undesirable Number One," Harry muttered under his breath as he replaced Mr. Weasley's folder and shut the drawer. Abigail threw him a curious look, and he knew that they both probably knew who that was, and sure enough, as he straightened up and glanced around the office for fresh hiding places he saw a poster of himself on the wall, with the words _UNDESIRABLE NO. 1_ emblazoned across his chest. A little pink note was stuck to it with a picture of a kitten in the corner. Harry moved across to read it and saw that Umbridge had written, _"To be punished."_

Angrier than ever, he proceeded to grope in the bottoms of the vases and baskets of dried flowers, Abigail watching him anxiously, and was not at all surprised that the locket was not there. He gave the office one last sweeping look, and his heart skipped a beat. Dumbledore was staring at him from a small rectangular mirror, propped up on a bookcase beside the desk.

Harry crossed the room at a run and snatched it up, but realized that the moment he touched it that it was not a mirror at all. Dumbledore was smiling wistfully out of the front cover of a glossy book. Harry had not immediately noticed the curly green writing across his hat- _The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore_- nor the slightly smaller writing across his chest: _"by Rita Skeeter, bestselling author of Armando Dippet: Master or Moron?"_

Harry opened the book at random and saw a full-page photograph of two teenage boys, both laughing immoderately with their arms around each other's shoulders. Dumbledore, now with elbow-length hair, had grown a tiny wispy beard that recalled the one on Krum's chin that had so annoyed Ron. The boy who roared in silent amusement beside Dumbledore had a gleeful, wild look about him. His golden hair fell in curls to his shoulders. Harry wondered whether it was a young Doge, but before he could check the caption, the door of the office opened.

If Thicknesse had not been looking over his shoulder as he entered, Harry would not have had time to grab Abigail and yank the Invisibility Cloak over themselves. As it was, he thought Thicknesse might have caught a glimpse of movement, because for a moment or two he remained quite still, staring curiously at the place where Harry and Abigail had just vanished. Perhaps deciding that that all he had seen was Dumbledore scratching his nose on the front of the book, for Harry had hastily replaced it upon the shelf, Thicknesse finally walked to the desk and pointed his wand at the quill standing ready in the ink pot. It sprang out and began scribbling a note to Umbridge. Very slowly, hardly daring to breathe, his hand over Abigail's mouth to quiet her nervous gasping, Harry backed them out of the office into the open area beyond.

The pamphlet-makers were still clustered around the remains of the Decoy Detonator, which continued to hoot feebly as it smoked. Harry hurried off up the corridor as the young witch said, "I bet it snuck up here from Experimental Charms, they're so careless, remember that poisonous duck?"

Speeding back toward the lifts, Harry reviewed their options. It had never been likely that the locket was here at the Ministry, and there was no hope of bewitching its whereabouts out of Umbridge while she was sitting in a crowded court. Their priority now had to be to leave the Ministry before they were exposed, and try again another day. The first thing to do was to find Ron, and then the three of them could work out a way of extracting Hermione from the courtroom.

The lift was empty when it arrived. Harry jumped in and pulled the Invisibility Cloak off the two of them as it started its descent. To his and Abigail's enormous relief, when it rattled to a halt at level two, a soaking-wet and wild-eyed Ron got in.

"M-morning," he stammered to them as the lift set off again.

"Ron, it's me, Harry!"

"Harry! Abbie! Blimey, I forgot what you looked like- why isn't Hermione with you?"

"She had to go down to the courtrooms with Umbridge, she couldn't refuse, and-"

But before Abigail could finish, the lift had stopped again. The doors opened and Mr. Weasley walked inside, talking to an elderly witch whose blonde hair was teased so high it resembled an anthill.

"... I quite understand what you're saying, Wakanda, but I'm afraid I cannot be party to-"

Mr. Weasley broke off; he had noticed Harry. It was very strange to have Mr. Weasley glare at him with that much dislike. The lift doors closed and the five of them trundled downward once more.

"Oh hello, Reg," said Mr. Weasley, looking around at the sound of steady dripping from Ron's robes. "Isn't your wife in for questioning today? Er- what's happened to you? Why are you so wet?"

"Yaxley's office is raining," said Ron. He addressed Mr. Weasley's shoulder, and Harry felt sure he was scared that his father might recognize him if they looked directly into each other's eyes. "I couldn't stop it, so they've sent me to get Bernie- Pillsworth, I think they said-"

"Yes, a lot of offices have been raining lately," said Mr. Weasley. "Did you try _Meterolojinx Recanto_? It worked for Bletchley."

_"Meteolojinx Recanto?"_ whispered Ron. "No, I didn't. Thanks, D- I mean, thanks, Arthur."

The lift doors opened; the old witch with the anthill hair left, and Ron darted past her out of sight. Harry, Abigail's hand in his, made to follow him, but found their path blocked as Percy Weasley strode into the lift, his nose buried in some papers he was reading.

Not until the doors had clanged shut again did Percy realize he was in a lift with his father. He glanced up, saw Mr. Weasley, turned radish red, and left the lift the moment the doors opened again. For the second time, Harry tried to get out, but this time found his way blocked by Mr. Weasley's arm.

"One moment, Runcorn. Patricia, dear, could you excuse us please?"

Horror flooded Harry's stomach, and he fought to keep his face normal. Abigail hesitated but nodded and ducked out. Harry just caught a glimpse of her panic-stricken face as the golden grills shut.

As the lift clanked down another floor and Harry found himself completely alone, Mr. Weasley said, "I hear you had information about Dirk Cresswell."

Harry had the impression that Mr. Weasley's anger was no less because of the brush with Percy. He decided his best chance was to act stupid.

"Sorry?" he said.

"Don't pretend, Runcorn," said Mr. Weasley fiercely. "You tracked down the wizard who faked his family tree, didn't you?"

"I- so what if I did?" said Harry.

"So Dirk Cresswell is ten times the wizard you are," said Mr. Weasley quietly, as the lift sank ever lower. "And if he survives Azkaban, you'll have to answer to him, not to mention his wife, his sons, and his friends-"

"Arthur," Harry interrupted, "you know you're being tracked, don't you?"

"Is that a threat, Runcorn?" said Mr. Weasley loudly.

"No," said Harry, "it's a fact! They're watching your every move-"

The lift doors opened. They had reached the Atrium. Mr. Weasley gave Harry a scathing look and swept from the lift. Harry stood there, shaken. He wished he was impersonating somebody other than Runcorn... The lift doors clanged shut.

Harry pulled out the Invisibility Cloak and put it back on. He would try to extricate Hermione on his own while Ron was dealing with the raining office and Abigail... he would have to find out how to get back to her before the Polyjuice wore off.

When the doors opened, he stepped out into a torch-lit stone passageway quite different from the wood-paneled and carpeted corridors above. As the left rattled away again, Harry shivered slightly, looking toward the distant black door that marked the entrance to the Department of Mysteries.

He set off, his destination not the black door, but the doorway he remembered on the left hand side, which opened onto the flight of stairs down to the court chambers. His mind grappled with possibilities as he crept down them: He still had a couple of Decoy Detonators, but perhaps it would be better to simply knock on the courtroom door, enter as Runcorn, and ask for a quick word with Mafalda? Of course, he did not know whether Runcorn was sufficiently important to get away with this, and even if he managed it, Hermione's non-reappearance might trigger a search before they were clear of the Ministry...

Lost in thought, he did not immediately register the unnatural chill that was creeping over him, as if he were descending into fog. It was becoming colder and colder with every step he took; a cold that reached right down his throat and tore at his lungs. And then he felt that stealing sense of despair, or hopelessness, filling him, expanding inside him...

_Dementors,_ he thought.

And as he reached the foot of the stairs and turned to his right he saw a dreadful scene. The dark passage outside the courtrooms was packed with tall, black-hooded figures, their faces completely hidden, their ragged breathing the only sound in the place. The petrified Muggle-borns brought in for questioning sat huddled and shivering on hard wooden benches. Most of them were hiding their faces in their hands, perhaps in an instinctive attempt to shield themselves from the dementors' greedy mouths. Some were accompanied by families, others sat alone. The dementors were gliding up and down in front of them, and the cold, and the hopelessness, and the despair of the place laid themselves upon Harry like a curse...

_Fight it,_ he told himself, but he knew that he could not conjure a Patronus here without revealing himself instantly. So he moved forward as silently as he could, and with every step he took numbness seemed to steal over his brain, but he forced himself to think of Abigail and of Hermione and of Ron, who needed him.

Moving through the towering black figures was terrifying: The eyeless faces hidden beneath their hoods turned as he passed, and he felt sure that they sensed him, sensed, perhaps, a human presence that still had some hope, some resilience...

And then, abruptly and shockingly amid the frozen silence, one of the dungeon doors on the left of the corridor was flung open and screams echoed out of it.

"No, no, I'm half-blood, I'm half-blood, I tell you! My father was a wizard, he was, look him up, Arkie Alderton, he's a well known broomstick designer, look him up, I tell you- get your hands off me, get your hands off-"

"This is your final warning," said Umbridge's soft voice, magically magnified so that it sounded clearly over the man's desperate screams. "If you struggle, you will be subjected to the Dementor's Kiss."

The man's screams subsided, but dry sobs echoed through the corridor.

"Take him away," said Umbridge.

Two dementors appeared in the doorway of the courtroom, their rotting, scabbed hands clutching the upper arms of a wizard who appeared to be fainting. They glided away down the corridor with him, and the darkness they trailed behind them swallowed him from sight.

"Next- Mary Cattermole," called Umbridge.

A small woman stood up; she was trembling from head to foot. Her dark hair was smoothed back into a bun and she wore long plain robes. Her face was completely bloodless. As she passed the dementors, Harry saw her shudder.

He did it instinctively, without any sort of plan, because he hated the sight of her walking alone into the dungeon: As the door began to swing closed, he slipped into the courtroom behind her.

It was not the same room in which he had once been interrogated for improper use of magic. This one was much smaller, though the ceiling was quite as high it gave the claustrophobic sense of being stuck at the bottom of a deep well.

There were more dementors in here, casting their freezing aura over the place; they stood like faceless sentinels in the corners farthest from the high, raised platform. Here, behind a balustrade, sat Umbridge, with Yaxley on one side of her, and Hermione, quite as white-faced as Mrs. Cattermole, on the other. At the foot of the platform, a bight-silver, long-haired cat prowled up and down, up and down, and Harry realized that it was there to protect the prosecutors from the despair that emanated from the dementors: That was for the accused to feel, not the accusers.

"Sit down," said Umbridge in her soft, silky voice.

Mrs. Cattermole stumbled to the single seat in the middle of the floor beneath the raised platform. The moment she had sat down, chains clinked out of the arms of the chair and bound her there.

"You are Mary Elizabeth Cattermole?" asked Umbridge.

Mrs. Cattermole gave a single, shaky nod.

"Married to Reginald Cattermole of the Magical Maintenance Department?"

Mrs. Cattermole burst into tears.

"I don't know where he is, he was supposed to meet me here!"

Umbridge ignored her.

"Mother to Maisie, Ellie and Alfred Cattermole?"

Mrs. Cattermole sobbed harder than ever.

"They're frightened, they think that I might not come home-"

"Spare us," spat Yaxley. "The brats of Mudbloods do not stir our sympathies."

Mrs. Cattermole's sobs masked Harry's footsteps as he made his way carefully toward the steps that led up to the raised platform. The moment he had passed the place where the Patronus cat patrolled, he felt the change in temperature: It was warm and comfortable here. The Patronus, he was sure, was Umbridge's, and it glowed brightly because she was so happy here, in her element, upholding the twisted laws she had helped to write. Slowly and very carefully he edged his way along the platform behind Umbridge, Yaxley, and Hermione, taking a seat behind the latter. He was worried about making Hermione jump. He thought of casting the Muffliato charm upon Umbridge and Yaxley, but even murmuring the word might cause Hermione alarm. Then Umbridge raised her voice to address Mrs. Cattermole, and Harry seized his chance.

"I'm behind you," he whispered into Hermione's ear.

As he had expected, she jumped so violently she nearly overturned the bottle of ink with which she was supposed to be recording the interview, but both Umbridge and Yaxley were concentrating upon Mrs. Cattermole, and this went unnoticed.

"A wand was taken from you upon your arrival at the Ministry today, Mrs. Cattermole," Umbridge was saying. "Eight-and-three-quarter inches, cherry, unicorn-hair core. Do you recognize the description?"

Mrs. Cattermole nodded, mopping her eyes on her sleeve.

"Could you please tell us from which witch or wizard you took that wand?"

"T-took?" sobbed Mrs. Cattermole. "I didn't t-take it from anybody. I b-bought it when I was eleven years old. It- it- it- chose me."

She cried harder than ever.

Umbridge laughed a soft girlish laugh that made Harry want to attack her. She leaned forward over the barrier, the better to observe her victim, and something gold swung forward too, and dangled over the void: the locket.

Hermione had seen it; she let out a little squeak, but Umbridge and Yaxley, still intent upon their prey, were deaf to everything else.

"No," said Umbridge, "no, I don't think so, Mrs. Cattermole. Wands only choose witches or wizards. You are not a witch. I have your responses to the questionnaire that was sent to you here- Mafalda, pass them to me."

Umbridge held out a small hand: She looked so toadlike at that moment that Harry was quite surprised not to see webs between the stubby fingers. Hermione's hands were shaking with shock. She fumbled in a pile of documents balanced on the chair beside her, finally withdrawing a sheaf of parchment with Mrs. Cattermole's name on it.

"That's- that's pretty, Dolores," she said, pointing at the pendant gleaming in the ruffled folds of Umbridge's blouse.

"What?" snapped Umbridge, glancing down. "Oh yes- an old family heirloom," she said, patting the locket lying on her large bosom. "The 'S' stands for Selwyn... I am related to the Selwyns... Indeed, there are few pure-blood families to whom I am not related... A pity," she continued in a louder voice, flicking through Mrs. Cattermole's questionnaire, "that the same cannot be said for you. 'Parents professions: greengrocers'."

Yaxley laughed jeeringly. Below, the fluffy silver cat patrolled up and down, and the dementors stood waiting in the corners.

It was Umbridge's lie that brought the blood surging into Harry's brain and obliterated his sense of caution- that the locket she had taken as a bribe from a petty criminal was being used to bolster her own pure-blood credentials. He raised his wand, not even troubling to keep it concealed beneath the Invisibility Cloak, and said, _"Stupefy!"_

There was a flash of red light; Umbridge crumpled and her forehead hit the edge of the balustrade: Mrs. Cattermole's papers slid off her lap onto the floor and, down below, the prowling silver cat vanished. Ice-cold air hit them like an oncoming wind: Yaxley, confused, looked around for the source of the trouble and saw Harry's disembodied hand and wand pointing at him. He tried to draw his own wand, but too late: _"Stupefy!"_

Yaxley slid to the ground to lie curled on the floor.

"Harry!"

"Hermione, if you think I was going to sit here and let her pretend-"

"Harry, Mrs. Cattermole!"

Harry whirled around, throwing off the Invisibility Cloak; down below, the dementors had moved out of their corners; they were gliding toward the woman chained to the chair: Whether because the Patronus had vanished or because they sensed that their masters were no longer in control, they seemed to have abandoned restraint. Mrs. Cattermole let out a terrible scream of fear as a slimy, scabbed hand grasped her chin and forced her face back.

_"EXPECTO PATRONUM!"_

The silver stag soared from the tip of Harry's wand and leaped toward the dementors, which fell back and melted into the dark shadows again. The stag's light, more powerful and more warming than the cat's protection, filled the whole dungeon as it cantered around the room.

"Get the Horcrux," Harry told Hermione.

He ran back down the steps, stuffing the Invisibility Cloak into his back, and approached Mrs. Cattermole.

"You?" she whispered, gazing into his face. "But- but Reg said you were the one who submitted my name for questioning!"

"Did I?" muttered Harry, tugging at the chains binding her arms, "Well, I've had a change of heart. _Diffindo!"_ Nothing happened. "Hermione, how do I get rid of these chains?"

"Wait, I'm trying something up here-"

"Hermione, we're surrounded by dementors!"

"I know that, Harry, but if she wakes up and the locket's gone- I need to duplicate it- _Geminio! _There... That should fool her..."

Hermione came running downstairs.

"Let's see... _Relashio!"_

The chains clinked and withdrew into the arms of the chair. Mrs. Cattermole looked just as frightened as ever before.

"I don't understand," she whispered.

"You're going to leave here with us," said Harry, pulling her to her feet. "Go home, grab your children, and get out, get out of the country if you've got to. Disguise yourselves and run. You've seen how it is, you won't get anything like a fair hearing here."

"Harry," said Hermione, "how are we going to get out of here with all those dementors outside the door? And where's Abbie?"

"Patronuses," said Harry, pointing his wand at his own. The stag slowed and walked, still gleaming brightly, toward the door. "As many as we can muster. Abbie got stuck on one of the upper floors, I'll get her before we're out, she knows the plan and how long the Polyjuice will last, we'll find her. Come on, Patronuses, do yours, Hermione."

_"Expec- Expecto patronum,"_ said Hermione. Nothing happened.

"It's the only spell she ever has trouble with," Harry told a completely bemused Mrs. Cattermole. "Bit unfortunate, really... Come on Hermione..."

_"Expecto patronum!"_

A silver otter burst from the end of Hermione's wand and swam gracefully through the air to join the stag.

"C'mon," said Harry, and he led Hermione and Mrs. Cattermole to the door.

When the Patronuses glided out of the dungeon there were cries of shock from the people waiting outside. Harry looked around; the dementors were falling back on both sides of them, melding into the darkness, scattering before the silver creatures.

"It's been decided that you should all go home and go into hiding with your families," Harry told the waiting Muggle-born, who were dazzled by the light of the Patronuses and still cowering slightly. "Go abroad if you can. Just get well away from the Ministry. That's the- er- new official position. Now, if you'll just follow the Patronuses, you'll be able to leave the Atrium."

They managed to get up the stone stops without being intercepted, but as they approached the lifts Harry started to have misgivings. If they emerged into the Atrium with a silver stag, and otter soaring alongside it, and twenty or so people, half of them accused Muggle-borns, he could not help feeling that they would attract unwanted attention. He had just reached this unwelcome conclusion when the lift clanged to a halt in front of them.

"Reg!" screamed Mrs. Cattermole, and she threw herself into Ron's arms. "Runcorn let me out, he attacked Umbridge and Yaxley, and he's told all of us to leave the country. I think we'd better do it, Reg, I really do, let's hurry home and fetch the children and- why are you so wet?"

"Water," muttered Ron, disengaging himself. "Harry, they know there are intruders inside the Ministry, something about a hole in Umbridge's office door. I reckon we've got five minutes if that-"

Hermione's Patronus vanished with a pop as she turned a horror struck face to Harry.

"Harry, if we're trapped here-!"

"We won't be if we move fast," said Harry. He addressed the silent group behind them, who were all gawping at him.

"Who's got wands?"

About half of them raised their hands.

"Okay, all of you who haven't got wands need to attach yourself to somebody who has. We'll need to be fast before they stop us." He turned to Ron and Hermione. "Keep an eye out for Abbie; if the Ministry knows they've got intruders, she'll be smart enough to come to the lifts," he said assuredly. "Come on."

They managed to cram themselves into two lifts. Harry's Patronus stood sentinel before the golden grilles as they shut and the lifts began to rise.

"Level eight," said the witch's cool voice, "Atrium."

Harry knew at once that they were in trouble. The Atrium was full of people moving from fireplace to fireplace, sealing them off.

"Harry!" squeaked Hermione. "What are we going to-?"

"STOP!" Harry thundered, and the powerful voice of Runcorn echoed through the Atrium: The wizards sealing the fireplaces froze. "Follow me," he whispered to the group of terrified Muggle-borns, who moved forward in a huddle, shepherded by Ron and Hermione.

"What's up, Albert?" said the same balding wizard who had followed Harry out of the fireplace earlier. He looked nervous.

"This lot need to leave before you seal the exits," said Harry with all the authority he could muster.

The group of wizards in front of him looked at one another.

"We've been told to seal all exits and not let anyone-"

"Are you contradicting me?" Harry blustered. "Would you like me to have your family tree examined, like I had Dirk Cresswell's?"

"Sorry!" gasped the balding wizard, backing away. "I didn't mean nothing, Albert, but I thought... I thought they were in for questioning and..."

"Their blood is pure," said Harry, and his deep voice echoed impressively through the hall. "Purer than many of yours, I daresay. Off you go," he boomed to the Muggle-borns, who scurried forward into the fireplaces and began to vanish in pairs. The Ministry wizards hung back, some looking confused, others scared and fearful. Then:

"Mary!"

Mrs. Cattermole looked over her shoulder. The real Reg Cattermole, no longer vomiting but pale and wan, had just come running out of a lift.

"R- Reg?"

She looked from her husband to Ron, who swore loudly.

The balding wizard gaped, his head turning ludicrously from one Reg Cattermole to the other.

"Hey- what's going on? What is this?"

"Harry!" screamed a familiar voice, and he and Ron and Hermione whipped around to see Abigail sprint out of a lift full speed straight at them, already transforming back into herself, blonde hair whipping and flying behind her. "Hermione, Ron, run!"

Two wizards burst out of a lift nearby, and two wizards jumped out, wands raised. One pointed his at Abigail as she ran speedily toward Harry, Ron, and Hermione.

"Seal the exit! SEAL IT!" He screamed. "HURRY!"

Yaxley had burst out of another lift and was running toward the group beside the fireplaces, into which all of the Muggle-borns but Mrs. Cattermole had now vanished. As the balding wizard lifted his wand, Harry raised an enormous fist and punched him, sending him flying through the air.

"He's been helping Muggle-borns escape, Yaxley!" Harry shouted.

The balding wizard's colleagues set up and uproar, under cover of which Ron grabbed Mrs. Cattermole, pulled her into the still-open fireplace, and disappeared. Confused, Yaxley looked from Harry to the punched wizard, while the real Reg Cattermole screamed, "My wife! Who was that with my wife? What's going on?"

Harry saw Yaxley's head turn, saw an inkling of truth dawn on that brutish face.

"Come on!" Abigail shouted at Harry and Hermione as she reached them; she seized Harry's hand, who quickly grabbed Hermione's, and Abigail yanked them into the fireplace together as Yaxley's curse sailed over Harry's head. They spun for a few seconds before shooting up out of a toilet into a cubicle. Harry flung open the door: Ron was standing there beside the sinks, still wrestling with Mrs. Cattermole.

"Reg, I don't understand- "

"Let go, I'm not your husband, you've got to go home!"

There was a noise in the cubicle behind them; Harry looked around; Yaxley had just appeared.

"LET'S GO!" Harry yelled. He tightened his grips on Hermione and Abigail's hands, and as Abigail grabbed Ron by the arm, turned on the spot.

Darkness engulfed them, along with the sensation of compressing hands, but something was wrong... Hermione's hand seemed to be sliding out of his grip...

He wondered whether he was going to suffocate; he could not breathe or see and the only solid things in the world were Abigail's hand and Hermione's fingers, which were slowly slipping away...

And then he saw the door to Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, with its serpent door knocker, but before he could draw breath, there was a scream and a flash of purple light: Hermione's hand was suddenly vicelike upon his and everything went dark again.****

OHMISAURONSFREAKINGFLAMEEYEBALLOFSQUEALINGDOOM O..O

**I just finished sophomore year. I was kept from updated by the presence of four MAJOR GRADE AS IN 65% OF MY FINAL FREAKING GRADE projects all due around the same time, an AP History Test, a college level entry test for Duel Credit U.S. History, a surprise trip to Orlando in which I rode the Harry Potter ride EIGHT AMAZING FREAKING TIMES, my cousins visiting for the Anime Convention in Dallas TX, and a week-long church camp I just returned from. However, I refuse to complain about Orlando and my church camp OUO They were A. MAZ. ING!**

**Anyway, I'm finally out of sophomore year! *dance party* So yeah, hopefully more update time. UPPERCLASSMANNNNNNN! *triumphant roar***

I welcome all reviews, comments, concerns, and insults. Like SERIOUSLY.


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